


Their Songs Of Fire And Blood

by Trashforstuckyandgot



Series: Their Songs of Fire And Blood [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Babies, Book: Fire and Blood, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Dead People, Death in Childbirth, Dragons, Essos, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forced Marriage, Friendship/Love, Happy, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, House Targaryen, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Idiots in Love, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, Inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire, Kings & Queens, Love, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Magic, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Original Character(s), Pain, Period-Typical Sexism, Please Don't Hate Me, Please Don't Kill Me, Political Alliances, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Princes & Princesses, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad, Sad Ending, Sexual Content, Targaryen Babies, Targaryen Incest, The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era, Tragic Romance, True Love, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 02:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 130,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18540142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashforstuckyandgot/pseuds/Trashforstuckyandgot
Summary: This will be a series of drabbles on different (mostly targ-based pairings) where we get a little insight into their lives. I will change the tags as the story goes on and more pairings are added. Suggestions will always be taken into account so feel free to comment your wishes!





	1. INDEX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Announcement: 
> 
> I've decided that this part of Their Songs Of Fire And Blood will be closed. There's 30 chapters, I have a thing about three's.  
> Maybe I'll post stand-alone drabbles after this, I don't know. Maybe I'll be hit with a surge of inspiration, we'll simply have to see. 
> 
> Beware: This work has not been edited (I'll do it some time but that may be in the distant future.) Forgive me for any mistakes.   
> Feel free to check out my other stories as well, if you'd like :)  
> * Pray The Sun Will Rise (Au centering around Elia Martell and if Rhaegar had won the battle of the trident and claimed the crown).  
> * Ain't No Rest For The Wicked (Basically a crackfic because we all need something happy, funny and messed up on the occasion. It centers around Rhaenys Targaryen). 
> 
> <3

                                                                  **Index (chapter 1)**

 **Chapter 2-** Daenaera Velaryon/Aegon III Targaryen _(A weary heart and soul)_

 ** **Chapter 3-**** Jenny of Oldstones/Duncan Targaryen _(High in the halls of the kings who are gone)_

 ** ** **Chapter 4-****** Mysaria/Daemon Targaryen _(Does absence make the heart grow fonder, or distant?)_

 ** ** ** **Chapter 5-******** Baela Targaryen/Alyn Velaryon _(A dragon that is jealous of the sun)_

 ** ** ** ** **Chapter 6-********** Rhaenys Targaryen/Aegon the conqueror _(A soft heart and gentle soul)_

 ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 7-************ Alysanne Targaryen/Jaehaerys Targaryen _(Broken men wield no swords but sorrow)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 8-************** Alyssa Targaryen/Baelon Targaryen _(One flesh, one heart, one soul)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 9-**************** Rhaenyra Targaryen/Daemon Targaryen _(A bittersweet victory)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 10-****************** Laena Velaryon/Daemon Targaryen _(Love can be as joyful as it is heart-wrenching)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 11-******************** Laena Velaryon/Daemon Targaryen _(What does love give us in the end, but sorrow)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 12-********************** Visenya Targaryen/ Aegon the conqueror _(The nightingales are drunk on our pain)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 13-************************ Naerys Targaryen/ Aemon Targaryen _(To love and to lose)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 14-************************** Naerys Targaryen/Aemon Targaryen and Naerys Targaryen/Aegon IV Targaryen  _(The vilest sins taste the sweetest)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 15-**************************** Viserra Targaryen/Baelon Targaryen _(Oh, the ache of loneliness is a wound that only festers)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 16-****************************** Larra Rogare/Viserys II Targaryen _(Happiness is a waning hope)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 17-******************************** Shiera Seastar/Brynden "Bloodraven" Rivers _(This bastard love is bastard born)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 18-********************************** Kiera of Tyrosh/Valarr Targaryen _(The gods take what they see as their due)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 19-************************************ Rhae Targaryen/Aegon V Targaryen _(Your time will come, if only you wait for it)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 20-************************************** Kiera of Tyrosh/Daeron Targaryen _(It has been a loveless year, and many more are to come)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 21-**************************************** Jena Dondarrion/Baelor II Targaryen _(What if what is wrong, is really, right?)_

 ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **Chapter 22-****************************************** Daenerys II Targaryen/Maron Martell _(Love does not have to burn, to be true)_

 **Chapter 23-** Daella Targaryen/Rodrik Arryn _(The cost of damnation)_

 **Chapter 24-** Rhaenys/Visenya/Aegon Targaryen _(There are those  who die, that deserve to live)_

 **Chapter 25 _-_** Jenny Of Oldstones and Rhaegar Targaryen _(The way we carry our scars is how we make them our own)_

 **Chapter  26** _-_ Mariah Martell/Daeron Targaryen _(The wars of our fathers, are not ours to bear.)_

 **Chapter 27-** Jocelyn Baratheon/Aemon Targaryen _(I hope you remember this moment (i'm not coming home again))_

 **Chapter 28-** Rhea Royce/Daemon Targaryen ( _Resentment is a seed that only grows)_

 **Chapter 29-** Nettles/Daemon Targaryen _(It would always come to this)_

 **Chapter 30-** Jena Dondarrion/Baelor II Targaryen _(The final act.)_


	2. A Weary heart and Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of the beautiful queen, Daenaera Velaryon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the first chapter! beware I wrote this at 2 am in the morning after a brief surge of inspiration. I'd love to continue it and I have more ideas on what pairings to do next. Please COMMENT and give KUDOS if you liked it. I would love to hear your thoughts and what types of pairings you'd like to see, etc. I haven't edited this but fret not, I will! Goodnight, for now.
> 
> PS: I think I may have fucked up with the tags since I thought I was doing the tags for the entire collection... I don't even know at this point lmao sorry if I clickbaited. It's my first collection so i'm pretty new at this.

 

 

 

Daenaera knew Aegon. Not like the lords and knights pretended that they did, she knew him truly. She saw the sadness in his heart, the darkness that surrounded him like a vice and would not relieve its grip of him. However much she tried, he seldom smiled and never laughed-- she would go to any lengths to see a glimpse of happiness in those purple eyes she had come to love. _Yet those rare smiles give me more joy than a thousand knights praising me for my kindness and beauty._

“You look so lovely, my queen,’’ Alice, one of her bedmaids told her as she tightened Daenaera’s corset. Daenaera blushed and then breathed in heavily as the sharp sting of the tightening reached her midsection. _Maybe I will look beautiful enough for Aegon to give me more than a fleeting glance and finally take me to bed, so I can give him the children he deserves and the babes that my heart craves._ When she was a girl of six and came to court for the very first time, Daenaera found Aegon’s sullen silence insulting and wondered if something was amiss with her presence. She tried to be the sun and shine on him, when his own had been lost so long ago.

Now she knew that Aegon was neither cruel nor cold, he was broken. He had lost a mother, his brothers, a father and a dragon. He had to watch his uncle order his dragon to consume his mother, forced to marry a cousin who was as broken as he was, if not more. She knew his heart _but it is not mine_ and she saw the sadness that he tried to hide. It had been years since she flowered at the age of three and ten, yet Aegon did not call her to bed. It mattered not to her, for carnal pleasures were not of any grave concern then, but she wanted to know what it was like to be a woman, wedded and bedded. Her heart craved babes with silvery hair and purple eyes, that she could call her own.

Not only did she want babes, but she wanted _him_. She wanted to relieve him of his pain and make him part of her, to let him know that he was loved. Aegon was not an uncomely man for that matter, he was beautiful like only one of the blood could be. With his silver-white hair, chiseled jaw, plump lips and dark, purple eyes--he was more than fair to look upon. Daenaera had come to love her king, and in a way, she believed he had come to love her, too.

“Aemon and the young Naerys have been asking for your presence-- they wish to break their fast with your grace,’’ Alice curtsied and Daenaera nodded. She had grown fond and close to Aemon and Naerys after their mother, Lady Larra had travelled back to Lys. Viserys who had been a charming man, turned cold and stern after his lady-wife left him but always remained courteous enough with Daenaera. The children, save for Aegon, looked to Daenaera as something akin to a mother. _Perhaps it is because we look alike with our hair of silver-gold and alabaster skin._

***

She walked with her maids in tow, to Aemon and Naerys’s quarters where they were to break their fast. Aemon was seven and Naerys was only a girl of five, sickly and small but lovely nonetheless. _Her eyes are a wonder, truly. It is as if I am gazing into a violet heaven._

“Daena!” the children called in unison and she moved to lift them both into her arms and spun them around as if they were her very own treasures. _My only treasures as of yet._

“What have you been up to, my sweets?’’ Daenaera asked as she stroked Aemon’s silver-gold curls. He looked at her with his eyes of amethysts and told her of how they had been playing cyvasse.

“The dragon is the strongest piece, it is known Daena! Tell Naerys, she thinks it is the knight,’’ he continued with a scoff and a small shake of his head.

“The knight has valor, he protects dutifully, Aemon! The dragon ravages and destroys.” Naerys might have been small and sickly but she lacked no wits, that was for sure.

“Now hush, children. The dragon is a strong piece but so is the knight-- it all depends on what it is you mean to do. To conquer, the dragon is the wisest choice, but the knight protects valiantly,” Daenaera said as she moved to grasp a grape.

The breaking of their fast went on and they spoke of cyvasse, dragons, history and poetry. Little Naerys loved poetry and Aemon loved everything that pleased his sister. _He loves her so, it is clear to anyone who gazes upon them._ Their older brother was not very fond of his siblings and not close to Daenaera, yet he behaved charmingly the times that she did meet him.

After she had broken her fast, she held court with her ladies and the smallfolk. She listened as they gave their pleas and tried to judge fairly. One woman accused her sister of having engaged in carnal pleasures with her husband, and he had begot a child on the sister. Daenaera was vexed as to what it was she was supposed to do, but finally she made a decision. The wife had brought two witnesses with her.

“Your husband shall be given three lashes for each time he fornicated with your sister, or choose to be gelded. Your sister shall pay a fine of five golden dragons to your own person, or be made to join the silent sisters. The child will be sent to be raised as a septa if it is a girl. If it is born a boy, he will be raised in your household in which you will be given a monthly sum of 5 silver stags from the crown, and be made to join the night's watch on his fifteenth nameday.” The woman gratefully nodded but Daenaera did not feel as if she had achieved justice. _The babe did nothing wrong but quicken in its mother’s womb and I condemn it to a life with the faith or the night’s watch. Is this what kings and queens must do? What a terrible power._

Holding court took up the most of the queen’s day and she was left sore and exhausted by the time it was finished. She realised that she had forgotten to have supper and idly wondered if Aegon had remembered to eat for the day. Her husband did not much care for sustenance, so oft times he forgot to dine on anything. Daenaera smoothed out her blue skirts that enhanced the summer sea color of her eyes and was just about to ask one of her ladies to send for Aegon when she was interrupted by Ser Marston Waters of the Kingsguard.

“My queen,’’ he bowed and then continued. “The king requires your presence in his chambers this eve,” then he left, his white cloak swishing elegantly on the marble tiles of the great hall.

Daenaera was in a state of shock, Aegon had never called for her to his chambers during the evenings before and she did not know what awaited her. Her ladies giggled, whispered excitedly to each other and then grabbed her arm.

“We must bathe and get you ready for the king,” and so she was brought to her chambers to be bathed and dressed in her finest nightgown made out of myrish lace. Then the time came for her to visit his chambers. Her heart squeezed nervously and her breathing quickened, yet she put on a dazzling smile and told her ladies to remain where they were. _I do not require an escort to accompany me._

When she arrived, she knocked upon the wooden door thrice and waited for it to open.  She heard footsteps calmly walk to the door, then the knob twisted and she came face to face with her husband. His hair was wet from a previous bath and clung like strands of molten silver to his forehead. _They say his father was dashing and his mother one of the most beautiful women in the realm, and he was gifted with the best of both, and none of their nature._

“My queen,’’ he acknowledged. Aegon was never the one for words or courtship. However, Daenaera had learned long ago, to interpret the most, from the few words she was given.

“My king,” she breathed and curtsied. He softly touched her arm and dragged his fingers up and down the soft flesh in a lover’s caress.

“Please rise, there is no need for curtsies. You are my wife.”  Never in the years he had been with her, had he been so open with his affections.

Aegon was a man of two and twenty and it was first now, that he called for her to his bed. She moved to stroke his cheek but he quickly took hold of her hand and swayed her actions. His purple gaze burned into her blue one and he spoke but two words.

“No. Please.” It was akin to pleading in her ears and she nodded, _the last I wish for him is to hurt him more than he already is._ Daenara moved to sit by the hearth as Aegon closed the door to the chambers behind them.

“Are you well, my queen?’’ he asked tenderly, there was a strange emotion in his words that were usually spoken mechanically.

“Sore from holding court all day but otherwise I am well. I broke my fast with Aemon and Naerys earlier, such lovely children they are, do you not think?” Aegon smiled a rare smile and Daenaera could not help but feel her heart clench painfully. _He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful when he smiles, nothing gives me greater joy._

“They are indeed.” An involuntary squeal escaped her lips as she felt warm hands touch her exposed shoulders.

“I’m sorry my queen, do you wish me to stop?’’ Aegon asked and removed his hands as if he had been scalded.

“No, you may continue. You surprised me is all,” Daenaera smiled as she turned her head to gaze at him. Aegon resumed massaging her shoulders and back in a comfortable silence. A little while later he stopped and she found herself missing the feeling of his rough hands on her, tenderly caressing. Then she felt a warm kiss to her cheek and his naked chest press against her back. _I am to be a woman now._

She discarded her nightgown with an easy grace and her husband froze. Aegon looked down as if he was ashamed of himself and Daenaera found herself losing her courage. Though Aegon never drank, a tankard of wine was present within the chambers, so she took a swig of the Dornish red. Her cheeks grew hot and she felt spurned, everyone wanted her, except the one who mattered.

“Am I not beautiful enough for you, my king? Why will you not look upon me?” Tears started welling up in Daenaera’s eyes and though she wanted to be strong, her voice wavered in pitch. Aegon grabbed her arm and gazed at her, not saying a word. He looked at her the way no one ever had before, as if she was all that was right in his world.

“You are the fairest lady I have ever had the privilege of gazing upon with mine own eyes.” The words meant more to her than the compliments of a thousand singers and knights. He took hold of her hand and slowly ran it down his chest, his breathing quickened and he closed his eyes almost as if he was in pain, but she recognised what the act meant to him. _He trusts me and wishes me to know._

Aegon then pushed a stray lock of silver-gold hair from her face and led her to sit upon the big, feathered bed. He laid her down on her back and removed his breeches. His skin was pale and soft, his hands rough and calloused and then he kissed her softly. He loved her as a man loves a woman that night. They were neither king nor queen, but simply a husband and his wife. After his seed spilled inside her, he gently placed the covers above them and wrapped a warm arm around her naked waist.

“I love you.’’ she was almost asleep when he spoke the words so quietly that she almost did not hear it. A sadness and warmth loomed in her heart. _How come you say it so sadly?_

“I am yours and you are mine. From this day, until the end of our days,’’ she responded and she could almost swear that she felt his grip tighten and an involuntary sob escape his treacherous body. Aegon then rested his head in the crook of her neck and they both fell into the lulling arms of slumber.

Nine moons later, Daeron the first of his name was born.


	3. High in the halls of the kings who are gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a second little drabble about Jenny of oldstones and Duncan Targaryen. She visits the ruins of Summerhal, in search of her ghosts that she lost and the ones she'll come to find. 
> 
> She seees her life unfold in silver and black, and it already made her sad. All that could have passed but would never come to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi i'm back with a second drabble and I hope I didn't fuck up the tags too much.  
> Jenny of Oldstones and Duncan's story just hurts me and I feel for them so much. This was also partly inspired by last night's episode. I may have cried like a bitch when writing this. I don't know why. 
> 
> I hope you like it and PLEASE give KUDOS if you did and I live for your COMMENTS, so please leave some :)

 

 

High in the halls of the kings who were gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts. In her ragged, white dress, she would run her hand along the burned stone and the blackened walls, and she would sing. She would sing her song. _ The ones I have lost and the ones I have found… And the ones who had loved me the most.  _ Duncan had loved her the most, he had given up his crown to be with her and promised her that they would be the king and queen of Dragonflies. 

_ “I never wanted to sit upon that damned throne anyway, lest it cut me and have me forever hear the whispers of how the throne has spurned me. You are all I need, Jenny.’’ _

The salty taste of her tears reached her lips and the moonlight glinted over the walls. _ I miss you, Duncan, I miss you. Come back to me.  _ He had taught her common courtesy when they had first met, a time long ago, on the fields of Oldstones.

_ “You must say “my lord” not “m’lord” when speaking to a high or lowborn, the higher born you sound, the more you can get away with,” he said with a teasing smile and a glint in his purple eyes. Then he brushed away a stray flower from her honey colored curls, gently cupped her cheek and-- _

The walk was silent, as it oft were. Nothing but the scurrying of rats and owls hooting in their nests were heard, and Jenny spoke not a word, she sung them with tears cascading down her face of grief.  _ They spun me around on the damp old stones… spun away all my sorrow and pain. _ She was not old, Duncan had been three turns of the year older than her, and he perished when he had been a man of four and thirty.  _ Right here, in these very halls where they were trying to wake dragons from stone. The only thing they woke was tragedy. _

The first time Duncan had bedded her was out on the Oldstone fields, with the river flowing behind them, sweet words being whispered and declarations of love made.  _ They were simpler times.  _ Jenny sighed and touched the flatness of her belly.  _ I was going to tell him I was with child, then I saw Summerhal go up in flames.  _ So it had been, that Jenny lost not only a husband, but a child. A bitterness bloomed in the sweet woman’s chest.  _ This foul and treacherous castle breeds only misery, sweat and regret. _

***

_ “I love you Jenny. I love you more than the sun loves the moon and the Father loves the Mother. I care not what my father will say, he wed for love and I shall be free to do the same.” _

_ “But you cannot, you are to be king, Duncan.” He took her hands in his and gave her a searching, purple gaze.  _

_ “Do you not love me, Jenny?’’ He asked and she saw a speck of uncertainty as she gazed into his eyes of old Valyria.  _

_ “How can you ask such a question? You are the air that I breathe,” she said and tried to push him away but he held her close to him and caressed her slowly. _

_ “I am yours and you are mine, from this day until the end of our days, promise me.” He kissed the flowers in her hair. _

_ “I promise.” _

_ *** _

She knew where he had died, it had been in the Great Hall. The Ghost Of High Heart had told her that. _ I hope he did not suffer for long.  _ Jenny knew however, that death by Wildfyre was one of the worst deaths.  _ Death by fire is not the cleanest death, it is the most wretched one. _

_ “You should not torture yourself like this, child. Summerhal has gorged on enough grief, you need not give it more.”  _ Her old friend had touched her arm softly after that, and left. 

Jenny knew that The Ghost Of High Heart was always around her, lurking in the shadows and keeping her safe.  _ I do not mind.  _ She knew her friend loved hearing Jenny sing her song in her melancholy tunes.  _ We danced through the day and into the night, through the snow that swept through the hall. _ Her voice echoed in the blackened ruins and she knew her ghosts were close.

She raised her pitch and sang the last notes in her voice of grief. _ High in the halls of the kings who are gone, I would dance with my ghosts. The ones I have lost and the ones I have found.  _ She turned around in the great hall and sat down on a ruined piece of stone to finish her calling.  _ And the ones who loved me the most. _

The shrill cry of a babe filled the halls and Jenny felt her heart tighten for what never was and could never be.

“Jenny,” he said and she looked at him, his black hair alight with moonglow. He had the babe in his arms and was cooing softly to it, in a tongue she barely recognised.  _ Valyrian _ . 

“Duncan,” she breathed and pushed some stray blonde curls from her face. She skipped to him and kissed him fervently, with tears running down her face of sorrow. 

“Oh how I have missed you, my love,” her voice cracked as she spoke the words, but it mattered not.  _ They are here. My family.  _

He smiled his lovely smile and handed her the babe. Their son, their perfect little child that was never to be _. At least he is with his father now, she  _ thought as tears ran down her face for the life she was never to have.

“What is his name?” she asked in a sob. Duncan looked at her with his wise eyes of amethysts that were brimming with tears.

“His name  _ was  _ Aemon Targaryen.” Jenny smiled a ruined smile at that.

“It is a beautiful name, and he is a beautiful babe. Our son.” A hopeless smile grazed her face.

Aemon looked every inch a Targaryen with his purple eyes but had soft tufts of Jenny’s honey colored curls upon his head.  _ My sweet child, my sweet innocent child. In another world we would have been.  _ Their son grabbed a hold of Jenny’s cheek and gently stroked it with his little fingers. She felt the Mother’s love bloom in her chest and then quickly handed him back to Duncan before she would never be able to let go again.

“ _ You see what you wish to see, one day you will never be able to come back, Jenny.”  _ The Ghost Of High Heart had warned her of dancing between the line of the living and dead. It was too thin and fickle, always fleeting and never solid but it mattered not to Jenny. _ I simply want to see Duncan again. This cursed castle robbed me of both my husband and my son. _

“You will need to let us go, Jenny. My love, we are gone-- turned to ashes and dust never to rise again. We have become one with the earth. No amount of spells or tearful pleas will change that.” Tears ran down his amethyst eyes as he kissed the top of Aemon’s head.

“I never wished this for us,” Duncan whispered. “I wanted to grow old with you, surrounded by our children in a cottage by Oldstones. But it was never to be. Alas, Valar Morghulis,” he continued in a broken voice. 

“We are here now,” Jenny said in a feverish voice. She did not plan on returning. She never wanted to leave. 

“We are not here, Jenny. We perished. Me in this horrid castle of blood and grief, and Aemon in your belly.” The words cut through her like the sharpest knife but she knew the truth of it, she knew they were sincere. She could not let go, however, she needed this. Jenny needed them. She needed her ghosts.

“There is nothing else for me here, Duncan.” She moved her bare feet across the cold floors to close the distance betwixt them and embraced him tightly.

“Let me come with you,’’ She pleaded in her broken voice. Duncan gazed at her with sorrow and pain, so unlike the confident and charming prince she had fallen in love with, that summer all those years ago, in Oldstones. 

“I cannot promise you will be with me, the Stranger is fickle, treacherous and above all; he makes no bargains.” Duncan kissed the side of her neck softly and she rested her head upon his shoulder.

“I do not care if it is a lie,” she spoke softly.

“Please, live for Aemon and I. Live the lives we never had the chance to, and then, only when you are ready; you will pass and we will reunite. We shall have forever together. Us and our family,” his deep voice reverberated throughout the cold, eerie halls. 

“Can I still come and visit?” She asked him as she felt his warmth. He was as solid as he ever was when he was alive and his booming laughter was there to fill her ears.

“One day you will never be able to come back.”  She turned around to the voice of The Ghost Of High Heart. 

“They are gone, my child. Never to be. You must let their ghosts rest.”  

“No!’’ Jenny yelled out but Duncan and their child was turning back into the dust they were borne from. His voice echoed throughout the dreary halls. 

“The sun rises and we must die again.”


	4. Does absence make the heart grow fonder, or distant?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysaria reflects and Daemon does what he does best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with a third drabble and this one is about Daemon Targaryen and his paramour, Mysaria (also known as Misery, the white worm). 
> 
> I always imagined them to have a love/hate sort of relationship, and that she lost Daemon's devotion when she lost his child. I also always imagined Mysaria to be more fond of Daemon, than he was of her. I don't think she took it well to be spurned by Daemon and thrown away like a used doll... plotting ensues. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this little drabble and please leave some COMMENTS down below and KUDOS if you liked it. :) until next time.

 

 

 

 

“We never spoke about him,” Mysaria said as she turned to lay on her back, panting softly. Her Daemon visited her chambers each night, ever since he returned and took the capital with his niece. Mysaria remembered the queen from the time Rhaenyra had been a girl, and she had been Daemon’s favorite whore _. What a beauty she had been, not even half of the courtesans in Lys had been as fair to look upon as her. With her slim waist, full bosom, eyes of true purple, delicate features and silver-gold hair-- She had looked like a true Valyrian goddess.  _

Age however, had not been kind to Rhaenyra and neither had childbirth. Though still a beauty, the queen had grown stout and had a constant petulance about her. There was nothing delightful about the queen anymore, losing most of her sons had made her lust only for revenge.  _ Bastard boys and one trueborn, Laenor would rather had a cock in his arse than a hole to stick it in. Harwin Strong had done his husbandly duties for him. Everyone knows, they just daren’t say it, in fear of the queen’s wrath. _

Mysaria was not blind to her own faults either. With age came a thickness to her body that had once been so lithe and graceful. Her waist grew larger and her face lost some of its loveliness, to be replaced with lines and weathered skin.  _ Daemon likes me well enough still, and that is all that matters.  _ She knew she was his favorite, and she had always been. No one compared to her, no one could make the prince feel as she did. Mysaria knew him better than the palm of her hand, and as much as she hated to admit it; had come to love him. Mysaria never lost hope, she wished that one day he would confess his love for her too.  _ He never loved his delightful little niece, she was a pretty young thing once, and he fucked her in hopes of wedding her to gain the crown, but his brother had other plans. _

Years after he had taken Rhaenyra’s maidenhead, Daemon’s wife, Laena perished giving birth to a son that would not long outlive her.  _ Something in Daemon died after her death, he truly loved the Velaryon girl. _ After that, Daemon turned his grief into ambition. He had Laenor murdered, Mysaria knew his nature, and then wed his niece. Rhaenyra gave Daemon the sons that Laena could not.  _ The ones that I did not.  _ But she knew he did not do it out of love, and Mysaria suspected that Rhaenyra must know by now.  _ Surely she must. _

Daemon gazed at her with his lilac eyes and her treacherous heart swooned at the look. Mysaria made herself look indifferent. _ If not anything else, my years of whoring taught me to act the way men want me to. Never let men know your feelings for true, they are fickle, treacherous creatures and will stomp upon them when they are done using you. _ Yet even a woman as cold as Mysaria could not deny the utter beauty that Daemon possessed.  _ He looks like a Valyrian god reborn into flesh and bone, and he puts his cock to better use than all of the men I have encountered in my time as a whore. _

“Who?” Daemon asked in a bored tone.

“Our son,” Mysaria responded in a challenging voice and something in Daemon’s eyes changed. 

“We never had one,” Daemon said, still refusing to acknowledge what they had lost,  _ what I lost _ . When Mysaria found out she was with child, Daemon presented her with a dragon egg. His king of a brother became most wroth, though and demanded that Daemon send her away back to Lys and return to his lawful wife--  _ The bronze bitch with her barren womb and dry cunt.  _

Mysaria lost their child upon the way.  _ I knew it was to be a son, I knew. That wretched storm cost me my child and Daemon’s devotion. _ She lost her babe, just as she grew accustomed to imagining having one in her ams, to hold and watch it grow. Mysaria had never gotten with child after that, the healers in Lys said that her womb was ruined, and she was to be barren for the rest of  her life.  _ They have not been wrong as of yet. _

A vicious anger bloomed in her chest as Daemon indifference, so she slapped his fair face roughly, with the palm of her hand. He stilled for mere moments in shock.

“What do you think you are doing, woman? I can have your head for that!” he yelled out at her and grew red with rage. He roughly pushed her hand aside, climbed on top of her and throttled her. She felt the air thin and her blood pound in her ears yet she cackled as viciously as she could at him. 

“You will not. You need me,” she croaked out and Daemon removed his hands. Mysaria coughed and wheezed but as the pain dulled and her breathing returned to normal, Daemon looked at her with eyes as cold as chips of ice and grabbed her jaw roughly.

“What good will it do to speak of the past? You lost the bastard and it hurt me, but its memory faded and I had trueborn children to take its place. It is dead, there is nothing to speak of, so you would do well not to mention it in my presence again,’’ Daemon said and leaned closer to whisper harshly into her ear. 

“Mistresses of whispers can be easily replaced, so can paramours. Do not be so sure of your position.’’

“One word from me and Rhaenyra will have your head. Remember that,” he continued with a wicked smile.  _ What a wretched man I have chosen to love.  _

Then Daemon took his leave, but he returned the next day. Stinking of another woman.

“That sour face does not become you, Mysaria. Spit it out or forever hold your tongue,” Daemon smiled after he had fucked her thoroughly. Mysaria had her suspicions of who the woman was.  _ Nettles they call her, a bastard girl who rode the bastard of all dragons. _

“A little young for your tastes, is she not?” Mysaria teased, waiting for Daemon to confirm her suspicions.

“Old enough,” Daemon let out as he threaded his fingers through Mysaria’s pale, silvery hair. She leaned into him and rejoiced in his attention. 

“I have never known you to be a man of so few words.” Her Lysene accent tickled the words and Daemon laughed a sound of mirth. 

“I never knew you to be so jealous,” He retorted in a relaxed voice and began kissing her pale neck.  _ Only for you, my love. But you shall never know. Never.  _

“Why should I be jealous of a skinny brown girl on a skinny brown dragon?” He gently bit her shoulder and she hissed at the sensation.

“She does have the purple eyes that bespeaks of her heritage, and a mouth fouler than that of any pirate. I find it a refreshing change of scenery.” Daemon did not have to call the girl beautiful for Mysaria to know. She had seen the girl once, a young, skinny thing but with delicate features.  _ She probably cleans up well enough. Even the homeliest woman in the world can be turned pretty with gold.  _

“Tomorrow Nettles and I leave to search the Riverlands for Vhagar and that cunt of a nephew of mine.” Mysaria knew the implication of his words. _ Nettles is his new favorite. I would not expect any less in regards to Rhaenyra, but I have stood by him for all these years, in his search for ambition. He discards me like a used rag. _

“Very well,” Mysaria smiled.  _ I assume he shall know now, why they call me Lady Misery.  _

He stayed and slept in her chambers that night. Mysaria traced the line of his jaw, chest and arms with her dainty fingers. She trailed his sleeping face with soft kisses and held his head to her chest and stroked his soft, silver-gold locks. A treacherous tear escaped her pale, blue eyes but it turned to steam upon her cheeks. As he had once turned his anger to ambition, she would turn her anger into revenge. Finally, she kissed his pouting lips.

“You will return to me, my lover. One way or another.” a cruel smile graced her lips as she whispered the words.

***

Sometime later, the queen asked for Mysaria’s counsel. Queen Rhaenyra wondered if the rest of the dragonseeds would come to betray her. Mysaria innocently looked up and replied in a voice as soft as fresh fallen snow. 

“The girl has already betrayed you, my queen. Even now she shares your husband’s bed, and soon enough she will have his bastard in her belly.” The once beautiful queen begot a queer, cold look in her eyes and Mysaria asked to take her leave. The queen nodded absentmindedly. 

A wicked smile graced Lady Misery’s face as she descended the granite stairs.

_ I told you that you would return to me, my love. One way or another. _


	5. A dragon that is jealous of the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baela takes offense to Alyn consorting with the princess of Dorne. Alyn does not see any reason for her jealousy and decided to put an end to his wife's doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back with another chapter and this time, it's about Daemon's daughter, Baela and her husband, Alyn Velaryon. I like to think that they did love each other, at least in the beginning of their marriage. They are a ship of mine.
> 
> This has not been edited yet, neither has the other ones, but I will get to it. Promise.
> 
> Don't forget to give a KUDOS if you enjoyed it and I live for COMMENTS, so please leave one!

 

 

 

“I do not like you consorting with that wanton woman,” Baela said as she looked at her husband pointedly. Alyn was in the midst of removing his linen shirt, to retire to bed. Her husband sighed exasperatedly and ran a hand through his silvery hair. 

“The princess is kind and graceful, our survival depended on her help, and she gave it to us freely.” Alyn looked tired as Baela gazed upon him. 

“That is not what I have heard,” Baela said in a petulant tone of voice as she laid a hand upon her flat belly. She truly  hoped to see it swell once more.  _ I must be with child, I am usually not this petulant. _ Alyn threw himself on the bed with the vigor of a man crazed and exhaled loudly.

“And what is it that you claim to have heard?” her husband asked as he turned his head to look at her from where she stood, at the foot of the bed. Baela pursed her lips and frowned.

“I have heard that this woman requires… carnal favors in return for her oh, so gracious help. Carnal favors from  _ you _ ,” Baela said as she pointed a finger accusingly.

“Which if I find out that you have provided, I will duly cut your cock and tongue off and feed it to Morning,” she continued with the fire of her ancestors.  _ I am a Targaryen, after all. Father would have been proud. _

“Now that I think of it, maybe I should take your fingers too,” she pondered for a few moments as she gazed at his long, elegant fingers. Alyn breathed in sharply and it made Baela smile a wicked smile.

“No I shall let you keep them and be merciful--I do enjoy them on the occasion,” she finished. Her husband sat up again and winced at her words, yet began walking toward her. She backed away as he came closer, but he was a man on the prowl and trapped her from behind as she attempted to exit. His laughter echoed throughout their chambers. 

“Stop it, Alyn! It is not funny!” Baela exclaimed angrily, even though part of her wished to laugh at her husband’s antics. His strong arms felt good around her, and calmed her somewhat. Alyn turned her and embraced her from the front, whilst stroking her hair and back soothingly. He towered above her, and even though both of her parents had been tall of stature, Baela stood at barely above five feet. _ He is still laughing at me, the menace. _

“Oh, you must truly be with child, my love,” Alyn exclaimed as he could barely contain his laughter. His childish giggles were something she grievously missed, that reminded her of her father in his younger days.  _ When all had been well, and mother was still alive to be his light.  _

“Because I do not know why else you would suggest this absurdity. Do you think me a common whore on the street of silk? To pull my cock out for anyone who asks nicely? Fret not, my wife. It is yours and yours only,” Her husband barely got the words out and laughed so hard that he fell down onto the white furs in front of the hearth, dragging Baela with him.  _ At least his body dampens the fall somewhat, _ she thought. They laid there for sometime, the only sounds heard, being the laughter of her husband, until that quieted down as well. And then there was silence.

He stroked her hair softly as she laid on top of him, the hearth providing a feverish heat. Baela raised her head to gaze at her husband. His eyes were purple, but not like hers.  _ They are more like a lavender flower, whilst mine hold a darkness.  _ His hair was silver without a trace of gold, but hers was the silver of her father’s with a touch of her mother’s golden hues. His nose was aquiline and his jaw strong, his lips plump and inviting. His body felt right on hers, and she loved tracing the muscles on his taut abdomen idly.  _ Does he love me as much as I do him?  _ For Baela truly loved him, she truly did. The thought of having to share him hurt her the way not even dragonflame could.

“You know that I would not do that to you, Baela?” Alyn suddenly asked her seriously, with strange emotions swivelling in those eyes of lavender. Baela did not answer him. He suddenly sat up and cradled her, as she would Laena when she was a young babe. He pressed her against his chest and held onto her like a man deprived of love.

“You deserve the world, my love. I would never shame you so.” Somehow his words eased the feeling of resentment that made its nest in her heart. Alyn leaving for his second voyage did not seem so absurd now, that he calmed her mind and heart with his honeyed words. 

“If you say so, my love,” Baela replied with a soft smile, her eyes were brimming with unshed tears at his words. She furiously tried to wipe them away but Alyn stilled her hands. 

“I must truly be with child, as you say,” she said as she laughed a sound of false mirth. Her husband wiped each and every one of her tears away with his calloused thumbs and she rejoiced in the attention he was giving her.  _ It is not often that we are allowed to share moments like these with each other. _ Then he gently laid her flat on her back, atop the furs and the feverish heat that was surrounding the room. 

Alyn bent forward to push a stray lock of hair from Baela’s face and then he kissed her lips gently, and so softly that her heart burst and bled for the utter love he was conveying to her. Then he moved away and Baela felt confused, that was until he took hold of her nightgown and gently moved it further up, until it was past her belly and underneath her breasts. Then he kissed the soft skin on her belly and began speaking tenderly in his deep tone of voice.

“Hello, my little quickening,” Alyn told no one in particular. His large hand grazed the skin of her belly softly and Baela laid her head back on the furs in bliss.

“Let us hope you do not inherit too much of your mother’s fire, for the gods know that Laena has enough. The three of you would put me into an early grave,” he jested and Baela laughed a true sound of mirth. Alyn looked at her and smiled genuinely. 

“And although I may sometimes behave to your distaste, never doubt my love for you, your sister or your mother.” Baela knew that his words were directed at her, and tears welled up yet again, but they were not of sadness. These ones were borne from love. 

“So can you find it in your heart, sweet mother of my children, to forgive me for the mistakes I have not made and for whatever other slights you deem me guilty of?” Alyn laughed and smiled boyishly.  _ He looks so young and beautiful. _

“Perhaps…” Baela said to play along with his little game. 

“Oh, my love, what can I do to regain your favor?” he asked in mock-confusion. Baela giggled sweetly and replied. 

“You can come to bed, it is late and I wish to feel your arms around me.”

“Your wish is my command, princess,” her husband said as he picked her up and carried her up to their bed. He finished removing his breeches and climbed in next to her, wrapping his arms around her, anchoring her to him. Baela turned to look at her husband.

“I love you,” she said and Alyn saw the sincerity in her eyes as she spoke the words. 

“How could you not?” he jested and she punched his shoulder in mock-anger. 

“I do not know,” she said honestly, and saw his lavender eyes soften. He laid his head in the crook of her neck, took a deep calming breath, and together, they fell into a calming slumber.

A few weeks later, the maester of Driftmark notified Baela that she was yet again, with child.

  
  



	6. A soft heart and gentle soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visenya, Rhaenys and Aegon have a war council. Aegon tells Rhaenys fond memories of their youth and it gets a little hot and heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another drabble, this time about Aegon the conqueror and his Rhaenys.  
> I haven't edited this, but as i've said previously; I will at some point.  
> I hope you like it and PLEASE leave a kudos if you did, and a COMMENT down below. I love comments. 
> 
> until next time :)

 

 

 

 

“Aegon, do as Senya says,” Rhaenys told her husband with a fixed, violet gaze. They were discussing war strategy, in case the Faith decided to play another one of their games. Visenya had proposed that they try to hold the peace, but bring them Fire and Blood, if their militants began to rise.  _ A worthy contribution, _ Rhaenys thought. 

Their husband was weary of the war it had taken to win the Seven Kingdoms and was not as inclined to use their dragons to ravage and burn until nothing remained of the wretched faith that threatened to tear them asunder.  _ We won the throne, we took it with Fire and Blood, we made it. It is ours and we shall rule it in our way. We are Targaryens, not puppets to these false gods.  _ Their faith was that of old Valyria, even though they pretended to be amiable for these septons and septas.

“We shall resume this discussion on the morrow. I am weary and in need of a slumber where none of your bickering may reach me.” Aegon pinched his nose and rubbed his eyes, he had not slept for days it seemed to her.  _ The crown weighs heavy on the shoulders of a king. Yet Aegon knew just what it was he was bargaining for when he decided to look wes _ t. Still, her gentle heart ached for her husband, she did not have it in her to scorn him as Visenya was wont to.  _ He is trying. He is doing the best he is able. _

Visenya pursed her lips at their husband’s statement, but made no effort to contradict it. Instead, she nodded and squeezed his shoulder as she moved to exit the chambers. Visenya looked every inch a warrior goddess, with her silver-gold hair in a tight braid with golden rings and chainmail. Though harsh and unforgiving, Visenya loved her sister dearly and often gave into Rhaenys’s will.

Rhaenys smiled sweetly at Visenya as she walked past her. Her sister stopped however and looked at Rhaenys with her eyes of true purple, they softened under the guise of her kind sister.

“Mayhaps you can help relieve our husband of his weariness. You are the lighter presence of the both of us,” Visenya smiled tightly, kissed Rhaenys softly on her lips and then walked out of the oaken door. Now it was only Aegon and Rhaenys left in their chambers. 

She walked to her husband, her curly hair of gold with specks of silver flowing freely down her back. Rhaenys had worn a light gown for the occasion, it was made of the finest silk that gold could buy and was the color of a warm sunset. _ I do not know how Senya can wear that chainmail in this blistering heat. _ Aegon had commissioned the gown for her, after he had ripped one of her favorites in his throes of passion. _ The wretch was barely apologetic of ruining it, it had not come cheap, for that matter. _

The gown had a deep cleavage and left her back bare, yet most of it was covered anyway in the shadow of her thick hair. Rhaenys reached her slender arms out and grasped Aegon’s shoulders. She squeezed them and tried to relieve him of his aches and tensions, yet it was hard for her, as she was not as tall of stature as Visenya, and Aegon was quite the bit taller than the both of them.

“Sit down,” she commanded and dragged one of the chairs out for him to have a seat on.

“Of course, Visenya,” Aegon said and smiled a wry smile. _ He is mocking me in jest, for I am usually not the one giving the commands. He leaves that for Senya, or himself. _

“Careful before I strike you,” Rhaenys warned with a humorous smile as she played along to his games. 

“You would dare strike a king?”  Aegon asked in mock-horror.

“What will you do? Take my hand off for chastising my disobedient husband? Do so and Meraxes will have a feast worthy of the crows.” Aegon bit his bottom lip as he gazed at her with indigo eyes, his feverish heat scalding her. Rhaenys fluttered her lashes innocently and resumed massaging his shoulders. Aegon closed his eyes in bliss and let out a soft gasp as she relieved the tension in a particularly tense point of his shoulders. His body is pure muscle, wrought in the blood of Old Valyria.  _ We are the dragon’s children. The last of them. The last who matter.  _

After a while, Rhaenys moved to straddle her husband and rested her head upon his shoulder.

“Senya is harsh on the occasion, but she loves us dearly, Aegon.” Rhaenys always fancied herself to understand their sister most out of their family.  _ She is not cold nor haughty, mayhaps to those who do not know her truly. But I do know her, and she is fiercely loyal to our family. I know the iron and have seen the softness underneath. _

“Our sister has a strange way of showing it sometimes, sweet Rhaenys.” Rhaenys could not argue with that. 

“Yet you are the apple of her eye. She used to sing you to sleep as a babe, I recall it vividly,” Aegon continued with a reminiscent smile. Rhaenys ran her hands through his short, silver-gold hair and he moaned in pleasure at the sensation.

“Really?” Rhaenys said with a sweet giggle. 

“I swear it on the gods of old Valyria. Once I sneaked into the nursery to see you in the midst of the night, but she was already there. The love she gazed at you with was like nothing I had ever seen. You were hers from the very moment you left our mother’s womb.” Aegon’s smile turned melancholy. 

“They were simpler times, Rhaenys.”

“Did she notice you standing there?” Rhaenys asked softly as she stroked his back. 

“Oh yes, she did,” he said with a softness in his eyes. 

“She beckoned me forward and told me that if I ever hurt you, that she would cut off a few choice parts of me, and feed them to Vhagar. Then she handed you to me, so softly that I was not sure this was the Visenya that I knew. We spent the night rejoicing in your sweet coos and giggles. It was the first time I had seen Visenya with such a warmth. She was glowing with love. We even slept next to your cot, and that is how our lord-father and lady-mother found us on the morrow. Now if you ask Visenya, she would never admit to this, but I witnessed it with mine own eyes,” he continued with misty indigo eyes.

“I told you she loves us. In her own way,” Rhaenys replied with a chaste kiss to Aegon’s lips.

“Is that all I get?” Aegon said in a humorous tone and took hold of her hips with his large hands and squeezed roughly. Rhaenys giggled and nodded. 

“That does not please your king,” he whispered wickedly into her ear. 

“Well I am a queen in mine own right, it matters not if I please the king or not,” she smiled mischievously. 

“Oh, I beg to differ.” He took hold of her dress and moved to rip it in half but Rhaenys’s horrified squeal put a stop to it.

“If you tear this dress apart, I will feed you to your own Balerion, I am not jesting, Aegon. You tore my last one, you shan’t claim this one, too!’’ she let out in a mix of defiance and childish anger. He waved his hands in indifference. 

“Very well.” 

As gently as his rough hands would let him, he grasped the fabric and slowly lifted the silky material up her soft thighs. Rhaenys let out a sound of impatience but Aegon tut-tutted her.

“Am I not pleasing my queen?” he asked teasingly with his indigo eyes alight. 

“Stop it, Aegon,” she petulantly responded. 

“Well I am a king in mine own right, and it matters not whether I please the queen or not,” he smiled wickedly as he repeated her own words into her ear. His hot breath tickled the side of her pale neck where he was leaving little, red bruises.

She removed his tunic with such deft fingers, that she wondered if the whores of Lys could make quicker work of it, than her.  Aegon pulled the straps to her dress down all the while murmuring of how beautiful she was, to himself.  _ I love him. I do _ . She scratched his back roughly with the tips of her nails as he fondled her and she heard him breathe in sharply. Rhaenys had woken the dragon.  _ How lovely and terrible it is when roused,  _ she thought ruefully.

Then Aegon lifted her up as he kissed her delicate neck and face with a ferocity that was unmatched, and carried her to their bed. It creaked softly under their sudden weight and Aegon threw away the covers to the side as he unlaced his breeches.

“You must learn patience from your sister,” Aegon said as he continued to work on the laces. 

“We all know Senya does the work when it is only you and her,” she said breathlessly and moved to rip his breeches open, as he was stuck on a knot that would not open. 

“Rhaenys!” he scolded.

“I am only returning the favor.” Then he pushed her down so that she was on her knees and he behind her. All that could be heard from their chambers were two people in the midst of their passion. Rhaenys knew just what to say to make her dear husband lose his control.

“You can admit it, Aegon. You enjoy it when Senya acts the superior when engaging in your relations.” Her husband did not reply, but only rushed his movements further. 

***

The moonlight glinted on the walls as Aegon gazed at his wife. Her beauty was unparalleled, perhaps the only worthy opponent was their sister. _ Yet Visenya has a more austere and dark beauty, whilst Rhaenys’s is borne from light and mischief.  _ He enjoyed them both, they were the perfect flavors to balance his. Sometimes he craved a roughness and harsh words, so he visited Visenya. When he craved a gentle love that filled his heart with joy and fondness, he would visit Rhaenys.  _ Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.  _

Her lips were plump and parted, her curves soft and womanly. He grazed the side of her heart-shaped face with his finger, down her neck and down onto her waist. His wife shivered and moved closer to him, resting one leg above his hip. Aegon smiled at the action and kissed her forehead. Rhaenys made an incoherent sound in the midst of her slumber.

“Yes. You shall always have my gentle love, but Visenya will have the dark one my heart craves on the occasion,” he whispered into the breeze where he listened as the nightingales sang their songs of things unknown.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Broken men wield no swords but sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alysanne and Jaehaerys comfort each other in their time of grief, as the death of The Darling Of The Realm was still fresh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with yet another chapter, this time about Jaehaerys and Alysanne as they travel through their grief of losing their daughter. Warning: angsty as fuck. Also, it hasn't been edited so beware. 
> 
> The next chapter will probably be on Baelon and Alyssa, so feel free to keep an eye out :)
> 
> And as per usual, please give a KUDOS if you liked it and PLEASE leave a little COMMENT below-- I love comments, as previously noted.

 

 

 

  
  
  
Alysanne’s tears were drowning her. She did not know how she was able to weep as much as she did. _It should have been me,_ she thought bitterly. Seven days had gone since the death of their daughter, it had been Jaehaerys himself who had lit the funeral pyre. _She was so small._ Broken sobs full of guttural pain began emerging from her throat and she tore at her nightgown. Anger and resentment for the gods was all she knew these days. _Daenerys had done no evil, she was kind and strong and beautiful. There was no hatred in her heart. How could they take her from me?_

“No, no, no!” she yelled out as she screamed and flung the furniture around. Alysanne had not seen Aemon or Baelon for days. Jaehaerys brought them once but they were so frightened of seeing their mother in her state of disarray, that Baelon began weeping and Aemon, always the wary one, took a step back. It hurt her, but she could not muster up the strength to beg them to stay, or to pretend that she was well.

Her screams echoed throughout the chambers, but her maids knew better than to visit her when she was like this, or risk her wrath being unleashed upon them. Jaehaerys… _Jaehaerys visits on the occasion but he is much busy keeping the realm intact, caring for our children. He does not have time for his hysteric wife._ Alysanne was aware that it was no rare occurrence for one to lose their children, but they were different. _We are Targaryens, we are not of the same blood as these Andals. Daenerys was a pure-blooded princess of Valyrian stock, not the daughter of some fishmonger who caught the pox._

How it happened, Alysanne could not say. All she keeps hearing, is her daughter waking her and telling her that she is cold. Daenerys’s trembling voice as she passed would haunt Alysanne until the very end of her days.

 _“Mother, I do not want to go. Mother, please,” Daenerys sobbed as she shivered with the fervor of a man in the coldest sea._ Her tiny fingers gripped Alysanne’s in a desperate plea to anchor herself to the world of mortal men.

The way her beautiful lilac eyes remained open as she took her last breaths, and the grip she had on her mother’s hand loosened and grew limp-- would never leave Alysanne. She wished she could forget but she knew that she would never. _No mother should have to witness her own child perish, and I have watched two. I stood by as they took their last, painful breaths and I could do nothing but weep and tell them that we would see eachother again. In another world and another day. When flowers would grow in beautiful meadows and there would be no sickness nor cruelty or sorrow plaguing this world._

“But in this world it will never be,” Alysanne whispered out and knew the tragic sincerity of her words. _This world is abhorrent, cruel, wicked and awful. Yet on the occasion it can be lovely, kind and graceful. That is the curse we have to live with, in this world of gods and men._

Alysanne had not combed her hair, nor washed herself in the days since the passing of her daughter. _They called her ‘The Darling Of The Realm’ and she was. She was truly._ It was all Alysanne could do not to jump from the tallest building in King’s Landing. _I have to remain here, for Jaehaerys and the rest of our children._

Each time Jaehaerys laid his eyes upon her, she saw pity and sadness. _He is hurting too, I am sure. But does he hurt as I am?_ Alysanne despised her very being for it, but a part of her resented Jaehaerys for not grieving his daughter more. _Did he not love her as much as I did?_ Alysanne cursed herself for even thinking the thought. _Of course he did._

Her head began to spin and Alysanne saw little dark spots. She moved to get to the bed, but collapsed halfway there, with tears streaming down her face, she embraced the calm that the darkness gave her. Sleep brought her the comfort that Jaehaerys could not. _That no one can, but my darling girl who is not here to give it._

***

“Alysanne!” a man’s voice called for her somewhere far away, in the silent abyss, but she was not drawn to it. All she she saw was the tall woman with the silver-gold hair and laughing, lilac eyes. _What a beauty,_ Alysanne thought. They looked to almost be of an age with each other. Light radiated off of the girl, like the glistening sun. Alysanne felt better in the glow of it.

“Mother,” the girl said and smiled as a greeting. _No, no it can’t be. This is all a dream and can never come to be_. Horrified at the realisation, the pain returned. Sobs started racking throughout her body and she fell to the floor in a heap of tears. She saw the young girl frown.

“Do not weep, mother. Please,” the girl pleaded with her. “I am well and content,” she continued with a soft smile and it was as if the Maiden herself took form and spoke.

Alysanne embraced the girl with a ferocity and she felt the warmth, the flesh and bone. It was as if her Daenerys was truly there. The girl was much taller than Alysanne and comforted her mother as she wept.

“My sweet child,” Alysanne repeated over and over again, until she had no words left to say it.

“Mother,” the girl said as she gazed at her with a serious look, unfitting to the beauty of her fair face. “You must return to father and my brothers. You cannot stay here. This is the realm of the dead, not the living. You hold no place here as of yet,” her darling daughter continued.

“No, I wish to stay here, with you. My joy,”Alysanne said and tightened her grip on the girl, scared that Daenerys would become one with the air again, if she let go.

“Mother, you cannot. I am dead and gone and bones, given to the fire. This is but what I could have been. It was never to be,” the girl said sadly.

“But father is alive, he is flesh and bone. So is Aemon and Baelon. It was the will of the gods, it is not for us to judge.” The Doctrine Of Exceptionalism had planted seeds of doubt into Alysanne’s heart and it grew like a weed. _What if we are not so different from regular men, after all? Take away our fine, unworldly features, our dragons-- and what remains?_

Suddenly the world began to shake and disappear, as did her lovely daughter.

“Return mother, before it is too late. If not for you, for me,” Daenerys’s melodic voice let out, before she disappeared yet again, from her mother’s arms. _For me,_ her daughter’s voice echoed in Alysanne’s mind. _For me. For you, Daenerys, Yes, for you._

***

She woke with a start, she was still on the floor, but Jaehaerys was holding her head in his knees and stroking her golden hair, all the while with tears running down his fair face. She gazed at him with her blue eyes, so unlike his purple ones.

“Alysanne, please,” he whispered. He sounds so frightened. Her Jaehaerys had not noticed that she had woken.

“My love,” she said and her voice was hoarse as the driest sand, but it sounded like music to Jaehaerys’s ears.

“Oh, Alysanne,” he said as he embraced her fully and breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Please do not ever scare me so, again,” he pleaded with her. His crown hung crookedly on his head, and his silver-gold hair laid in a mess of curls. She breathed in deeply into the crook of his neck and rejoiced. He smelled of lavender and himself, a sweet musky scent that reminded her of home. Her heart swelled with a sadness and a love so unparalleled that she doubted even the wretched gods could feel it.

“Let us have a bath poured for you, my queen,” he said and helped her to her feet. Alysanne remained numb and silent, yet compliant to his wishes. He stepped outside for mere moments. _To ask the maids to tap me a bath, I must truly reek_. Then he returned and gently removed her nightgown.

“Burn it,” she told him in a quiet voice. “I was wearing it when she died,” Alysanne continued. Jaehaerys mutely nodded and laid it on the floor.

The maids filled the tub with scalding water, the way she liked it, and then silently left. Jaehaerys thanked them, and Alysanne tried to give them more than a grimace. He ran his hands through her soft curls and helped her into the tub. The hot water soothed her  aching body and she closed her eyes in bliss. When she opened them again, Jaehaerys had removed his crown, clothing and joined her in the bath.

Jaehaerys quietly began to soap Alysanne’s back and arms. She leaned into his touch and sighed, as he kissed her forehead as one would their babe in arms. All that was heard in the chambers was the pouring of water, quiet breathing and squeezing of washcloths. After he was done washing her body, he took hold of the comb to the side, poured some scented oils into her hair and combed gently. In the end,, Alysanne’s hair glistened like a golden sunset.

Then he rose to dry them both with cloths.

“I love you so much,” her beautiful husband told her and tears began filling her eyes yet again, but this time it was for doubting, and ever thinking the thought; that he might not have loved Daenerys as much as her. _We are both flawed people, doing the best we are able to._

“I love you too. More than you could ever know,” she responded. A sad smile touched his soft lips.

Jaehaerys had supper brought to them. It was simple broth with vegetables and bread, since Alysanne had not had proper sustenance in days, so he feared heavy food would upset her stomach. They ate in silence until her husband spoke.

“Aemon and Baelon miss their mother. It is time you rose from this wretched chamber and paid a visit upon them, you cannot lay here forever, my love. The grief would consume you,” He spoke the words gently but she knew her husband _. He is irked that I have left him all alone to mourn--rightfully so, but I cannot help that my heart yearns for something that was taken from me, far too early._

Alysanne continued eating her broth quietly and ignored her husband. _If I should try to speak, I would only weep._

“We need you!” he raised his voice and it cracked. The sound was raw and real, he felt spurned by her when it had never been her intention. An anger bloomed in her chest.

“We lost our daughter and you act as if she was some replaceable mare! You wish to continue ruling and behaving as if we did not lose a future queen, to a disease she should have had an immunity toward!” Alysanne yelled out so loudly that it hurt her voice and caused Jaehaerys to wince at her sharp tone.

“It strikes right into the heart of your despicable doctrine! Her blood was pure, of the old Freehold-- yet the Shivers took her from us, in half the time it takes a fisherman’s daughter! How could this happen, Jae? How?” she continued  to demand in a voice as cold as granite.

“I do not know!” Jaehaerys responded in a fierce growl that matched hers.

“Do you not think I lost a daughter, too? My only daughter! Just because I do not weep or leave the Seven Kingdoms in shambles, to close myself off and mourn-- Does not mean that it hurt me any less. I have to be there for the realm, for our sons! The dead do not excuse the living. We have to go on!” He continued in a yell. His face grew so red and angry that Alysanne feared for his heart.

Then he began to weep. The sounds he made did not sound like anything akin to human, it was pain personified, raw and guttural and horrible.

“I lost a child, too,” He whispered between his sobs. Now it was Alysanne’s turn to comfort her weeping husband, who had remained so strong throughout it all. _All that remains is sweat and regret_. After some time, his sobs decreased and he grew more calm. He looked at her with those purple eyes of his, glistening with unshed tears and spoke, in his deep tone.

“She wanted a sister, even after Aemon-- she remained adamant,” he smiled as he said it so sadly. Alysanne nodded. _She did, yes she did._

“Let us give her one. A sister for our sweet Dany and a wife, for Aemon to marry.” Then he kissed her so softly and gently, conveying his scalding love to her in their castle of grief. Alysanne nodded between the kisses and began removing her robe, and his. Then she pushed him down on the bed and stroked his cheek, down to his chest and thighs. She loved her husband, not matter how flawed he could be. _And he loves me, no matter how flawed I can be._

Suddenly Jaehaerys turned her and pinned her down on the wooden bed. He had silent tears running down his face but it was of no consequence. _So do I_. He held onto her as a drowning man does air, and she, him. Next he did his husbandly duty and they were both still in tears as they reached their consecutive highs. Their coupling was not of the ordinary kind, it was full of a heartbreaking pain as they made and unmade each other. It was broken-- just as they were.

As they laid there in the aftermaths of it, their bodies full of lust and love, their hearts full of sorrow-- Jaehaerys turned to her with his lilac eyes of pain.

“I am sure we made a sister for her.” Alysanne nodded mutely and held onto him as he embraced her.

“Please return to us, Alysanne.” “I need you here to help me get through it all. I am not whole without you,” he continued. Alysanne smiled a beautiful smile as she kissed his lips lovingly.

“We shall honor her memory together,” she said and then they fell asleep as the mockingjays sang their melancholy tunes, in the air of dawn.

In the end of that very same year that Daenerys, The Darling Of The Realm perished, the sister she so craved, Alyssa Targaryen was born. Though Daenerys was not there to witness it.


	8. One flesh, one heart, one soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyssa is... Alyssa. she bonds with Jocelyn and makes her siblings topple over in laughter at her ribald remarks. Yet she loves Baelon, and he, her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! I am on a roll, it seems. I was not planning on finishing this today and I currently have to be up in five hours for a long day of school... not a very exciting prospect. Yet it is soon time for another episode of GOT, which brings me a certain strength to carry on and get through the day. 
> 
> I finished this at like 2:00 am so it is not edited and my sleepy brain may have made some mistakes. Fret not, my loyal readers-- I shall get to them when I edit. 
> 
> Please give a KUDOS if you liked it and please, please, please leave a comment. I live for them. They are the sustenance for my very being.
> 
> until next time,  
> :)

 

 

 

 

“I mounted him and took him for a ride, and I mean to do the same tonight. I love to ride,” Alyssa announced loudly into the hall where the lords, ladies and her family was busy breaking their fast. It had been her younger sister, Daella who had asked the question of what it truly was a man and woman did during the bedding.  _ They fuck, sweetling, and if they are lucky-- they both enjoy the act.  _ Alyssa knew that not all lords and ladies were so fortunate.

Aemon toppled over in laughter after he noticed the abashed look of their father and the horrified one of their mother. Baelon who was seated next to her, began to choke lightly on his drink and then turned to her with an eyebrow raised in admiration.

“I did not think you would actually do it, Lyssa,” Baelon whispered into her ear with a barely-veiled chuckle.  _ What did the fool expect? For me to tell Daella that one waits patiently for the gods to put a babe in your belly? I am not Maegelle.  _

“Oh, I can do better,” she bit back with a mischievous smile. Alyssa loved creating havoc.

“I flew on Meleys last eve. Red maidens, the two of us, but now we’ve both been mounted, have we not, Baelon?” she said as her mismatched eyes sparkled with joy and unheard laughter. Aemon’s laughter rang through the halls, with the occasional chuckle from Baelon when he could no longer hold himself composed. Even their aunt, Jocelyn looked amused.  _ Mother and father do not look pleased.  _

“We are breaking fast, Alyssa. This is not a Lyseni brothel, keep what you and your husband engage in, in your marital bed-- privy to yourselves.” _ Father, always the bore. _ Alyssa was to give him a rebuttal but her mother sensed a conflict brewing, so she spoke.

“Do as your father says, Alyssa. I want no more cheek from you.” Alysanne was not a woman to be denied, and Alyssa, although rash and bawdy-- harbored a paramount respect for her parents who had given her life.  _ They gave Baelon life, too-- without them neither of us would be here, to love each other.  _

Baelon leaned in to whisper into Alyssa’s ear.

“Maybe tonight can become right now?” Alyssa smiled a wicked smile. She leaned in seductively, as if she was about to give him a kiss--but instead she wiped some of the jam on her cutlery, on her husband’s face. Baelon opened his eyes immediately and gasped in horror. Daella and the others laughed as Alyssa wiped off imaginary jam from her hands with a piece of cloth. 

“Forgive me, husband. My hand must have slipped,” she said, unperturbed. Baelon gave her a smile worthy of the courtesans in Lys. 

“You shall pay for that later, dear wife,” he said as he leaned in closer. His hot breath tickled the side of her neck. Daella covered her eyes with her hands in horror.  _ Do not act so horrified, sweet sister--the greatest love is the one who discovered the sin.  _

When the breaking of their fast was finished, Aemon followed Baelon to discuss matters of the state.  _ Boring affairs that I wish to have no part in.  _ Whilst Lady Jocelyn, her aunt, followed Alyssa for a walk in the courtyard. 

“How can you be so bawdy?” Her aunt asked Alyssa with genuine curiosity.  _ There is no contempt in her tone. _

“If I had even made the slightest of such a comment, my aunts would have beaten me bloody,” Jocelyn said with a said with a soft smile that did not quite reach her eyes. 

“It is in my blood, I assume,” Alyssa responded with a smirk. Jocelyn nodded and they continued to walk upon the rough cobblestones, arm in arm. _ Like true sisters _ , Alyssa thought. In truth, Alyssa found Jocelyn to be more of a sister to her, than her actual sisters.  _ Maegelle is too holy, the others too young and Daella seems so terribly frightened of me. _

Jocelyn towered over her, even though Alyssa was taller than both her mother and her sisters.  _ So beautiful she is, she truly inherited the best of grandmother-- in her father’s colors. _

“And Aemon must not disappoint--as young Rhaenys was born last year,” Alyssa smiled a wry smile as her aunt blushed.  _ She came here a solemn girl and does not know how to truly enjoy herself. Is she melancholy for the mother she never knew, or the love she never felt as a girl? _

“He is very… well endowed,” Lady Jocelyn allowed as her blush grew fiercer.

“And so is Baelon. Men are glorious when they keep their mouths shut and do what they are meant to do, are they not? Sometimes they use tricks that would make even a whore blush. That is when they are the most fun, is it not? ” Alyssa jested. Her aunt’s dark eyes softened as she let out a mirthful laugh at Alyssa’s bawdy comments.

“Mayhaps so,” her aunt said. 

The air smelled of spring, and the flowers sweet as honey. Alyssa loved the outdoors-- for that was where she felt the most free. _ I do not have to be a princess in the forest, or soft-spoken and calm. Damn these presumptuous lords and ladies-- I shall be who I am and no one will ever stop me. I am the blood of the dragon and will not let them tame me.  _ Besides, Baelon fell in love with her just as she were.  _ Even though I am no great beauty.  _ Alyssa had suffered a broken nose that healed crooked, had a long face and mismatched eyes-- yet in Baelon’s eyes she grew more beautiful because of it.

Now her Baelon was a Valyrian god reincarnate. His eyes were shards of amethysts, his hair silver-gold.  _ He has lips that could shame even the most skilled of whores _ . All that, along with a sharp jaw and a graceful, lean and strong body. They had been close as children, and grew even closer as she flowered, and Baelon began to get a man’s urges. Though they had not bedded each other before their wedding, they had oft been seen kissing in the shadows of the pear trees.

Jocelyn and Alysanne came to a halt after they had walked the whole length of the courtyard twice. They decided to sit down on the benches of stone. 

“Smile a little, Jocelyn. It shan’t hurt you,” Alyssa said with a soft gaze and gentle push to Jocelyn’s shoulders. Her aunt smiled but still it appeared melancholy. 

“What makes you so solemn?” Alyssa asked genuinely.

“Are you not happy? If Aemon is not treating you well, I  swear on the Seven that I will cut his cock off with a dull blade,” Alyssa said in hopes of having her ribald jest make Jocelyn laugh a little more. 

“I am very pleased, my princess,” Jocelyn said as she gazed out into the trees.

“I do not know why I seem so melancholy and solemn. I am overjoyed with my life here, and could not ask for a better husband or child. Or niece, for that matter,” Jocelyn smiled and looked at Alyssa with haunting, dark eyes that seemed to gaze into her very soul. 

“Maybe it was for the mother I lost before I knew. Or the father who lived but was never present. My brother never showed much interest in me and neither did my aunts who favored their own children over me. I suppose I was searching for a place in a world that did not crave me,” Her aunt allowed after a brief pause and there was a sadness to her tone, that Alyssa desperately wanted to erase.  _ Her face was not made for tears or sadness. _

“Yet I came here a young girl and found my true family. My life has never been of more joy to me, please believe it Alyssa,” Jocelyn said and Alysa did believe her. They spent the rest of the afternoon, lost in conversation. Jocelyn told her of how she expected Rhaenys to take her first steps any time now, and Alyssa told her of how she wished to give Baelon the son that he deserved.

“It will not be for lack of trying,” Alyssa promised her aunt with a booming laugh. Then Jocelyn had to retire to the nursery, to meet the Princess Rhaenys. Alyssa felt tired and decided to go to her own chambers to have a quick slumber, before it was time for supper. She departed from her kind aunt, with a warm hug and a kiss to the cheek.

The walk back felt dreary and her head was pounding.  _ Maybe I had too much wine.  _ When Alyssa reached Baelon and her’s chamber, she quickly undressed and climbed into the soft, feathered bed. She could not find the strength to go and fetch her nightgown, as she felt too hot to even wear one.  _ Our blood runs hotter than that of regular men.  _ Alyssa fell asleep dreaming of babes with purple eyes and dirty-blonde hair.

A warm presence woke her, hours later.  _ Baelon _ , she thought as she turned around to gaze at him. There he was, her spring prince. He looked tired as well,  _ he is even frowning as he sleeps. Perhaps the matters of state were more exhausting than he assumed _ . Her husband’s lips were half-parted and he was in a deep slumber, naked, save for his underpants.

Alyssa rejoiced in the feeling of his arms around her. Her cup of love was soon going to overflow, but it mattered not-- for that is the joy of love. She gently peppered his face with small kisses and he smiled a boyish smile in his sleep and dragged her closer to his body. 

“Oh, Alyssa,” he mumbled into her neck and then all was silent as could be.

The next time she woke, dusk had fallen and the moon illuminated their chambers. She basked in the glow of it, and idly wondered where Baelon had wandered off to. Just as the thought befell her, the doors to their chambers opened and there was her husband, dressed in a light tunic and breeches-- carrying a tray of supper.

“Wife,” Baelon greeted her and then gazed at her for a few moments with a feverish heat. He put the tray down on the bedside table, as he moved to light the hearth. After a few failed attempts, a fire was lit and the flames illuminated the room in ways the moon could not.

“What did you and Aemon spend the day doing?” she asked as she took a bite of the mutton.

“Fucked whores on the street of silk,” Baelon said and let out a snort as Alyssa raised an eyebrow. 

“What do you think we were doing? We spent the day reviewing information brought to us regarding house Martell. They are a most unruly bunch,” Aemon said with a wry smile. 

“What did you do today, dear wife of mine?” The softness his eyes conveyed as he said the word  _ wife _ , brought joy to Alyssa’s heart but she was to give him a dosage of his own medicine.

“I walked naked throughout the halls, for any man to gaze upon,” she said nonchalantly as Baelon raised a dark, silvery eyebrow. 

“Well then I would be forced to slay any man who laid his eyes upon you, and there is much better things I was planning to spend my eve doing,” he said as he leaned forward and grazed her ear with his teeth. Alyssa shivered even in the heat of the room. 

“Like what?” She teased, her mismatched eyes glinting dangerously.

“Like this,” Baelon said with a voice as soft as Dornish sand, Then he duly pushed her down onto the bed and began kissing her with an urgency that was unparallelled. Her loose dirty-blonde hair spilled past the red velvety cushions and Baelon was scalding hot. 

“I waited all day, after that mummer’s farce you put on during the morning,”

“You are such a little tease,” Baelon continued with a fond smile.  _ He has not stopped smiling since we wed.  _

“And do you not love it?” she asked. 

“Oh, I do. I do.” he said quietly. 

***

Baelon gazed at his wife as she slept.  _ How lucky am I not, to have a woman such as her, by my side until the day I die?  _ He loved his Alyssa more than life itself. More than the dance of swords or hunts and hawks. She was the half that made him whole, ever since they were children. 

He loved the way she was wild and willful, how she was not afraid of what people would speak of her.  _ She is a dragon and they are but sheep to her. _ The way she would smile or frown softly in her dreams. The way they felt as but one flesh, one heart and one soul when he was inside her. Baelon had never been very pious, but he only felt the gods when he laid with her.

After dreary days of council meetings, court and lords who would lick his arse for a higher position-- it was a comfort to return to his chambers and see his lovely, enticing wife there, waiting for him. She listened when he spoke, was not afraid to give her own thoughts on the matter whether he wanted them or not.  _ Who would be a better mother to my children? Wild, willful and clever-- she is all anyone needs and more. _ Baelon would forever be grateful that it was Alyssa he wed and not any of his other sisters _. It is nothing against them, but there is no one else I would rather have. She is the Jocelyn to my Aemon. The Florian to my Jonquil. The Alysanne to my Jaehaerys. _

Two years after they wed, Alyssa gave him a son that they named Viserys-- after their uncle. A plump and lovely boy who smiled more than any other. Motherhood became Alyssa, but it did not dull her presence-- it only made it grow fiercer.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. A bittersweet victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenyra and Daemon speak whilst she reflects after having taken the capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to this story and here's another chapter. This time about the realm's (former) delight and the rogue prince. I always found their story to be sad and although Rhaenyra went quite crazy at the end, I always feel like I understood her. She suffered grave injustices and I believe she would've made a good queen-- If she had been given the right to rule from the start. Oh, how much tragedy they could have prevented. 
> 
> I also wrote this at like 3 am lol so it's not been edited. Sorry in advance!
> 
> I hope you enjoy and please leave a KUDOS if you enjoyed it, and I love COMMENTS so please leave one. I find them very endearing. 
> 
> who should I do next?
> 
> until next time :)

 

 

 

“Rest,” Daemon told Rhaenyra after she had taken the capital and stayed up into the early hours of dawn, for the people to swear fealty to her. Her arms and legs were weeping crimson blood from where the throne had cut her, and where she had grasped it so fiercely. Silent, Rhaenyra nodded at her husband and gently laid down on the bed. Her heart was aching of a bittersweet victory.  _ I lost almost all my sons for this throne, I shall not fail them by letting it slip from my hands into the treasonous ones of my half-brother.  _

She sighed sadly, as she thought about the sons she had lost. _ I need to be grateful for the ones I have left. I can make more, I am still young as of yet. _ She wondered if her Daemon would be inclined toward the prospect.  _ He has not bedded me since Visenya was conceived. _ However, Rhaenyra was well aware of her husband’s carnal lusts, and how he never seemed to be sated. _ I know I am not as beautiful or slim as I once was when he first bedded me-- yet it did not stop him from begetting two sons on me, after I had already birthed three. _

The rumors of her first sons’ paternity were true as her claim to the throne, yet the truth of it would die with her.  _ It is not my fault that Laenor was more enticed by the prospect of his handsome knight, Joffrey’s cock in his arse-- rather than in me, what was I to do? Harwin loved me and treated me as a husband should have. _ Yet to her, Joffrey, Jacaerys and Lucerys were still as much Targaryens as she was.  _ They claimed their dragons, they proved their blood. _ Her first husband, Laenor cared for them well enough, although he knew that they were not of his blood.  _ He let them bear his name, he swaddled them at his chest. He read to them before they were to sleep. He had loved them, _ that Rhaenyra knew.

Rhaenyra loved her second husband the most. She’d been enamored with her uncle Daemon since the time she had been a girl. The memories of their first night together still burned fresh in her memory. How much easier things had been then _. I do not know when everything went so horribly wrong, how it all ended up like this. _ Some would argue that it was when her father remarried that Hightower cunt, or when he died without acknowledging her claim for a second time. Others would say that it was when she waged a war on her half-brother, after he claimed the throne that was hers by rights.  _ They are all correct, to some extent. _

She hissed when she felt the cold sensation of an ointment being rubbed on her legs. _ He is still here, _ she noted. Her husband, although many a years older and more hardened by war-- remained as handsome as he had been in his youth.  _ No maiden could ever resist those charming, lilac eyes, those sweet lips and smirks of his, or that lean and hard body of his.  _ He was a god, and once, long ago-- she had been his goddess. Now everywhere she turned, she only saw the remains of an ugly truth.

“Thank you,” she said as she gazed at him with her deep, purple eyes. Her husband did not smile,  _ he does not do that much in my presence, anymore _ . Daemon simply returned her gaze and nodded whilst gently massaging it into him. Rhaenyra knew that Daemon would leave her, to visit his paramour, Mysaria, when he left her chambers. _ Maybe I should try to have him put a son in me before he leaves, _ she wondered. Mysaria was a beautiful woman once, as Rhaenyra had been-- yet age was kind to none of them. Rhaenyra allowed him to fornicate with his favorite little whore, so long as her throne was secured.

“I want you to search the Riverlands for Aemond, Vhagar and that foul Ser Criston. As long as they live, my throne is not secure,” Rhaenyra told her husband. His silvery hair had grown longer and she idly wondered if he meant to cut it. _ I like it though, it makes him look like a true warrior. _

“May I bring one of the Dragonseeds with me? The search would be easier if we were two, and Vhagar has grown nigh as large as Balerion was before his demise.” The rough tones of her husband’s voice reached her and she pondered his words.

“Alright, who do you propose?” She asked.

“Nettles, the girl who rides Sheepstealer.”  _ Is he fucking her too?  _ Rhaenyra wondered.  _ She seems a bit young… Daemon’s tastes have always been refined, though.  _

“Very well. You leave in two days time,” Rhaenyra told him and he nodded. Then Daemon got up to leave but Rhaenyra stopped him. 

“And Daemon?” Her shaky voiced reached him. He stopped in his steps and turned toward her.

“Yes, my queen?” he asked with a confused gaze.

“Put a son in me before you depart,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. _ One more secures the succession after Joffrey and Aegon, she thought feverishly.  _

“As my queen commands,” Daemon said and pulled down his breeches and unlaced his tunic. Her legs had stopped bleeding, but she figured that they would resume again, after Daemon bedded her.  _ He was never known for being gentle, and once I enjoyed that more than flying atop Syrax _ . Her lessons in the art of pleasing a man was never lost to her, and she cherished those memories with Daemon. _ We were both different people then, and we are different people now. _

Rhaenyra quickly discarded her nightgown and was horrified by the sight of herself. It would have made her weep, if her tears had not been burned away. Her pale, alabaster skin was covered in red marks from carrying five sons and one daughter. There was stretched skin and thickness that never went away after the birth of her children. Her belly jiggled and slouched when she moved. _ It matters not, Daemon has his whores and I shall have another son. _

Once Daemon would have teased her and made her feel as if she was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. _ Once, I was. _ He did no such thing now, he entered her immediately and it was rough, painful and uncomfortable. She had never felt such a pain when coupling before-- even with Laenor. The Velaryon man had bedded her once or twice, always in the company of his handsome knight. Rhaenyra did not mind, she liked to watch the two men in their play. It both fascinated and aroused her.

Daemon’s sharp breaths reached her and he was moving with a vigor she had not known before.  _ This is duty to him, _ she realised. _ He takes no pleasure from it and nor do I. _ Her indifferent facade crumbled on the occasion when he pushed too fast or too hard, and she let out a distressed sound of discomfort. He neither stopped nor acknowlegdged it. It was almost as if he was saying, _ you will have your son but not by my will _ .

After some time, he finally spilt his seed inside her, and he laid down next to her, on his back and breathing hard. A tear or two had escaped her purple eyes and she felt his presence on her, even though he was not anymore.  _ I wanted this, I ordered him. The pain would be worth it a thousand times over, for another sweet babe to hold in my arms and love. _

“If that is not a son, I do not know what is,” he let out after a few moments.

“Let us pray that it is,” she said and Daemon looked at her strangely.

“I lost faith a long time ago,” he told her and moved to get up and leave.

Rhaenyra put a hand on his arm and stilled his actions. He turned to her with another queer look. She remained quiet, and then Daemon spoke.

“Was there anything else, my queen?”

“Do you love me?” she asked. “Truthfully,” she continued. Rhaenyra regretted the words as soon as they escaped her mouth.

“Love is the concept of singers and mummers. I am dutiful,” her husband told her.

“Did you ever love me?” she asked him in turn and his eyes softened for just the slightest moment. 

“You were a lovely child, Rhaenyra. The only child I could stand at the time. You made me a better man, and for that I am grateful,” he said and looked away. Her eyes grew misty.  _ It all turned out so horribly wrong. This was not the way it was meant to be _ , she thought sadly. For her heart still loved Daemon in some cruel and wicked twist of fate. He was the only man she had ever loved.  _ Except father. _ Not even Harwin had brought such emotion out of her as Daemon could with only a quiet gaze. 

“So you did not love me when you wed me, then?” she asked with a frown on her petulant face. His face turned sad.

“I only loved Laena. Yet she is dead and gone to bones. But we are here, alive and breathing.” 

“Then why did you wed me? I comforted you in your grief. I gave you sons and my devotion! Was it never enough for you?” A sudden fierce anger took hold of her. 

Daemon leaned toward her, slowly and gracefully.  _ Like a water dancer. _

_ “ _ It was all for the throne,” he whispered into her ear, so softly and seductively.  _ His ways could sway even the coldest of men,  _ she thought. Rhaenyra had always known, somewhere deep inside her, that he had never loved her. Yet she never wanted to acknowledge it.  _ If you water a plant, it only grows larger.  _ The truth of his words hurt her more than any of his lies ever could. 

“Leave me,” she said in a voice as cold as winter snow. Daemon nodded mutely and rose to leave. When the door closed, she wept. They were bitter, ugly tears of sorrow, anger and heartbreak. She had won, but was all that she had lost worth it?  _ My chase for revenge cost me my family. If I had let that fat, melancholy, Hightower spawn be king, then my children would still be alive. So many people would still be alive. _

However, even though they would have been-- Rhaenyra would never have renounced her claim _. It was mine from the moment I was born, and until the moment I will die. They conspired and committed treachery-- I would have been a kind and benevolent queen. If they had only given me the chance. Now they see me as cruel-- I am but what they made me! _

Now all she had was her remaining two sons, and she would protect them with her life. They were the only reason she smiled on the morrows. So much pain and sorrow haunted this princess’s life.  _ None of them will ever know what it took. What it cost. It cost me everything. _

Princess Rhaenyra never did end up having a sixth son, or a daughter for that matter. What did end up happening, was her losing another son-- along with her life.


	10. Love can be as joyful as it is heart-wrenching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laena meets the dashing and charming Daemon. Drama and love ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fresh new chapter for y'all-- this time about Laena Velaryon and Daemon Targaryen, from their meeting until their wedding. It is the longest drabble I have written as of yet-- and incidentally the one I am the most conscious about. I spent hours writing it and I hope it makes sense and is to your taste. :) 
> 
> please leave a kudos if you liked it and your thoughts/requests in the comments. I truly love reading the comments. 
> 
> Until next time,

“He has not looked away from you, even once since he entered this room!” Laena’s friend, the steward’s daughter, Alyssia said. Laena felt herself grow hot in the glow of her first cousin, once removed’s look _. Can he stop gazing at me? It is bringing me discomfort-- I have a betrothed._ Even though Laena would do almost anything to escape the betrothal to the former Sealord of Braavos’s son. _He has squandered his father’s fortune, come here to take residence and acts af he is better than everyone._

Laena knew that an air of  superiority came with being born as the offspring of a great house and wealth-- yet she had never known someone to be so obtuse and horrible to people of lesser birth. _Mother raised me to be benevolent and kind, because there are those who has not been as fortunate in the world as I_. Clearly, not all shared that sentiment.

Tall, wealthy and beautiful; one would have expected the seahorse and dragon’s daughter to have been more vain and cruel; yet she was none of those. Neither was her brother Laenor-- yet he indulged in more pleasures than she was ever known to. Blessed with the delicate features, silver-gold hair and violet eyes of the Valyrians-- Laena had experienced no shortage of suitors or ladies who would like to be her companion. _Alyssia is true to me, though. That is more than many can say of these ladies and lords._

“I think I might retire to my chambers and read, Alyssia. Will you be alright?” Laena asked her short, brown-haired and blue eyed friend.

“Certainly if he is present,” Alyssia jested and it made Laena laugh a soft sound of mirth. Without being aware of it, she turned her head toward her cousin and their eyes of old Valyria met. _He is so handsome I think I should might just perish,_ she thought. He smiled a smile of mischief at her and she quickly turned her head back toward Alyssia.

“I shall meet you for supper later,” Laena said quickly and turned to leave. The sweet laughter of Alyssia warmed her heart as she retired to her chambers. It did not take long for her to reach her intended destination. With a newfound vigor, she quickly opened the door to her chambers and rejoiced in the calm of it. It was her sanctuary, one might have said. It was here that she was free from her duties as a lady, and all the troubles and havoc that came with it. Here she was just able to be, and to be is to be. It was the quiet deep that she earnestly wished she could keep.

Laena pondered what book she should begin reading. _I have already read the one of the doom, and the ones by Septon Barth. Mayhaps I should read the one of the lovers of Valyria._ The book was about two lovers, who tragically died in each other’s arms as the world broke asunder right underneath their very feet. _A tragic story that never fails to make me weep. It is still beautiful, though._                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

* * *

“They gazed into each other’s eyes and embarked in a fierce embrace as they wept and the ground broke beneath them. The wailing of dragons and mortal men were heard all around them, and they knew that the god of death had come for them.

“Valar Morghulis,” he tearfully told his beloved as he tried to shield her by use of his own body.

“Valar Morghulis,” she replied in a scared sob as she held on tighter and tighter. He kissed her forehead and thought of the things that could have been. Their children of Valyria riding their dragons. Or of how their silver-gold hair would turn grey with age yet their love would remain an undying force. None of this would come to be, of course. He was a man of one and twenty, unwed and without children. She was a beauty of eight and ten, with no husband or children to her name. They would have been each other’s. Their love would remain immortal and young. As their memory would, too. _Long after our bodies turn to cinder and ashes._

“We shall meet again my love,” he whispered soothingly in her ear, as he turned her face away from the doom that was mere moments away from engulfing them. So that the last thing her beautiful eyes saw would not be that of horror and tragedy. He thought it so horribly unjust that they should die before they had even lived. Before they had a chance to.

“Please I do not want to go,” she screamed out in a hysterical plea. _It is for naught, my love._ _The doom has come and it is here for all of us. No amount of prayers or pleas of sorrow will change that._

Then the very ground they were standing atop, combusted and their bodies broke apart and fell to the floor. The utter chaos of their world reached him again, how the people screamed in agony as they perished and the fires were so hot that even dragons burned.  He heard her screams and felt the hot, molten fire, scald his body until it was all silent and he was not there anymore. _Let me reunite with her, please,_ he thought in a silent prayer before closing his eyes.  The deep was quiet and lulling-- a peace he had not known for so long.

He woke hours later, when the doom had ran its course. His limbs were stone and he could barely move. When his eyes gazed around, all they saw was a horrible reality, of blood and fire and grief. Crawling, he called for his lover into a silent air. Breathing grew ever more difficult and when he gazed upon his hand and stomach that were burning, he saw that there was barely any flesh there. Blood and pain was all to be found; yet he could not die before reuniting with his lover.

Her name was called time upon time, until he could no more. Then he saw her, laying so still and peacefully-- scalded barely beyond recognition yet that was the love of his very short life. Tears fell and burned his cheeks, _My love, my love,_ he cried out for her eyes of amethysts that would never open again. How her lovely voice would never reach him again, her belly that would never swell with his child.

Finally, he reached her and laid down next to her charred body. Her pale arm remained unblemished by the horrors that had taken their futures, so he took a hold of it and embraced her.

“I am here,” he called. “We are one, again,” he continued as his voice wavered and lost its strength. His lips touched hers for the very last time, as he wondered what they had done to deserve this. Then he closed those eyes of his, for the very last time. He knew that this wretched tragedy was not the last he wished to see; so he rested his head next to hers thought of else.

He conjured a lovely image where his beloved was with child, and they had a daughter with her hair and his eyes, running around calling for her dragon. How his beloved’s warm embrace would be the last thing he felt each eve, and the first of each morrow. A ruined smile touched his lips, and he let go.

* * *

 

By the time Laena finished the last chapter, she was sobbing and it was hours past midday. _How wretched it must have been to live through the doom, truly._ A knock disturbed her, and she wiped her tears on the sleeve of her dress. _It must be Alyssia coming to have supper._ When Laena opened the door however, it was her cousin standing opposite her.

“Prince Daemon,” Laena curtsied and smiled a nervous smile. _They call him the rogue prince, I think I am beginning to understand why._ _It is almost as if he thinks that he answers to neither gods nor men._ Daemon answered her with a gracious, blinding smile.

“I thought I might come and retrieve you for supper, your family is waiting,” Daemon told her and she nodded. They were almost of a height, she was but a few inches below the tall prince.

“Have you been weeping?” he asked her suddenly as she closed the door to her chambers.

“No,” she scoffed but tried to wipe the remnants of tears if there were any. Daemon stopped abruptly and turned to her, trapping her body against the wall with his own.

“I sure do hope that you are not wasting your tears on that awful Braavosi boy,” he said with an eyebrow raised, daring her to tell him otherwise.

“I would never,” Laena scoffed at him and then wondered if she had forgotten herself. _I am to wed this Braavosi man, mayhaps I should not express my disgust to a cousin who is close to both father and mother…_ Daemon gazed at her strangely but nodded.

“You need a man, not a callow boy,” her cousin said as he leaned dangerously close. _You are not wrong,_ Laena thought.

“He is a man, last I checked,” she told her unruly, older cousin-- but why? Was it because she wished to strike some sort of jealousy into his heart?

“A vain, weak boy with no wealth to his name. Just because you have a cock between your legs do not make you a man.” He said with a wry smile. “At least Laenor behaves as one. We all know what he prefers,” her cousin continued and Laena gasped. _How come everyone knows about Laenor?_ She thought angrily.

“He does not make his affections for his handsome knights as privy as they should be. Anyone with eyes would see,” Daemon told her, answering her unspoken question.

“If you spread these rumors, I will geld you, make no mistake,” she told her cousin with the fire of her mother. _Laenor is my brother and it is my duty to protect him. He is too good for this wretched world._ Daemon looked mildly impressed but nodded nonetheless.

“I would not dream of it, my lady,” he said and smiled as if he knew something that she did not. Then his eyes turned serious.

“You are happy though, are you not?”

“Gods, I was only weeping for I read a book that made me melancholy. Nothing has happened, cousin,” she told him and felt her cheeks reddened for how she wept because of a simple book. _He will most like think of me as a fragile, weak woman now._ Laena furrowed her brows and continued walking toward the main hall where they were to have supper. Daemon quickly caught up with her fast pace.

“Do you think I care that you wept because of a book? I will not mock you, though your betrothed might.” _Why is he being so kind to me? Everyone says Daemon only does things when he knows it will gain him something in return._

“I ride Vhagar, the same beast that Queen Visenya rode. I care not if he will call me a simple woman-- he will piss his breeches if I command Vhagar to even come close,” she spit out. _I am more man than my betrothed. I am the blood of old Valyria and he is naught to me._

“You must tell me about this book though,” Daemon smiled and she nodded. Surprisingly, he made a good listener. A fondness began to grow in Laena’s heart for the cousin who paid attention upon her.

Supper was a strange event. Her father rose his eyebrows in response to Laena arriving with Daemon, and her mother looked intrigued. Alyssia smiled a knowing smile but her betrothed was by no means pleased. Ternessio rose so abruptly that his chair scraped the floor, and greeted her with a shark-like smile. He had to look up, to even gaze at her-- since he was of shorter stature.

“My beautiful Laena. You grow ever fairer each time I gaze upon you,” he said in a soft voice that she had come to despise. _How shall I be able to wed this man and bear his children, when I cannot stand the very presence of him?_

“Thank you,” she said and offered her hand out for him to kiss. His lips felt wrong on her skin and made it crawl.

“Ternessio,” Daemon said in a bored tone.

“My lord,” Ternessio said without his murky, green eyes ever leaving Laena’s.

“Pardon me?” Daemon said incredulously.

“It is ‘my lord’ to you,” Ternessio said and turned toward Daemon, his smile never leaving his tanned face. _Oh, no,_ Laena thought as she noticed the cold look that took over Daemon’s features.

“Oh, please forgive me, my lord,” Daemon said in mock-apology.

“It is of no consequence,” the Braavosi waved off. _He is aware that Daemon is a prince of the crown, is he not?_

“Now that we are speaking of titles, you should address me by mine, since you are but my subject. I am your prince, boy-- do not presume to lecture me. You are a lord by title, yes-- but you have no fortune to your name and you presume to wed into a wealthy house and family. To have their beautiful daughter be a wife to you,” Daemon scoffed in disgust.

“You are but a poor, vain and weak boy--with nothing, but puny titles. You are not worthy of her, she needs a man. Have you not gazed upon the fierce beast that she rides? Careful, she might end up feeding you to Vhagar as supper. I know that I would have,” Daemon smiled dangerously as his lilac eyes glinted in the glow of the hall.

“I- I-” Ternessio sputtered but did not quite seem to have a rebuttal at hand. Her father was silently laughing, as was her brother. Her mother beheld a pleased smile and Alyssia looked to be in awe of Daemon.

“Nothing to add?” Daemon mocked and turned Laena with a smile. As Ternessio was even shorter than Laena, he looked comically small in the presence of the prince.

“I demand you to defend your vile words with steel!” Ternessio wailed and the sound gravely annoyed Laena. _He is comely in a common way. There is nothing extraordinary about Ternessio,_ Laena thought. _Yet his vanity is a raging fire and he is simply not worth the trouble._

“Name a time and place. I shall be happy to be there,” her cousin said as he moved to sit down by the long, oaken table that carried several dishes atop it.

“In seven days time!” then Ternessio took his leave, his face as red as the ripest tomato.

“I shall be deeply looking forward to it,” Daemon called out after the angry man. Then Daemon giggled and it turned into a booming laughter. Her heart squeezed painfully in affection. He could barely catch his breath, and even Laena, her father and her mother joined in. As Laena looked at the laughing prince, she found herself thinking that maybe, just maybe she could grow to love him.

***

The days passed quickly and Laena spent most of them in her cousin’s company. Alyssia began feeling neglected, but plans for her betrothal to a minor lord was being made so she could not be happier.

“Maybe Daemon will slay Ternessio and ask for your hand,” Alyssia said fervently to her companion as they were playing a game of cards in Laena’s chamber.

“Do not be absurd,” Laena told her cousin as she placed a card upon the table.

“He cannot even stand to be away from your presence, and neither can you!” Her friend argued and Laena sighed.

“Whatever happens shall be the will of the gods,” she allowed and her friend nodded.

“I have heard that Prince Daemon seems a god in more ways than one,” Alyssia said slyly and Laena coughed.

“Where have you heard such things?” Laena asked scandalously as she placed a loose, silvery curl behind her ear and moved closer to Alyssia, as if it was a wicked secret she wished to take part of.

“Women talk, whether it be maids or kitchen-wenches,” Alyssia raised a brown brow.

“They say he must be the Valyrian god of love and the Warrior reborn. You shall be his Maiden, I know it!” Alyssia told her as she placed a hand on her friend’s.

“You are my dearest and closest friend, Laena. I wish you nothing but happiness and it is Daemon who brings it to you, not Ternessio.” Her friend was right, as she oft were. Laena smiled fondly and embraced Alyssia.

“Our children shall be close as siblings,” she told her friend. Alyssia’s eyes grew misty.

After that, she met with Daemon in the courtyard.

“You look lovely, as per usual,” Daemon told her with a genuine smile. Laena blushed. _His comments never cease to make me feel as if I am a blushing maiden, newly flowered._

“Thank you. You are not so bad yourself,” Laena said indifferently. Daemon raised a dark brow.

“Oh, is that so?” he asked and moved closer to tickle her. She laughed and twisted in his grasp but he would not relieve it.

“What was it you said, again?” Laena could make no response but giggles.

“You are not so bad yourself,” Laena found the strength to say between childish giggles and gasps.

“I think I am worth more than that, since today is the day I might die,” Laena stopped laughing as she thought of the severity of the situation. What if Daemon dies? She had heard of his skill, and never seen Ternessio fight-- so she did not know who would come out on top.

“No, no frowns before you admit what I am,” Daemon said slyly,

“You are vain, rash, and bawdy,” she said with a teasing smile that did not quite reach her eyes..

“Just as my mother was,” Daemon said fondly at the latter parts of her statements.. “But I think you should might try again, before I show no mercy,” and then he tickled her side to show her that he was fully serious. Laena yelped and then laughed.

“Alright, you might also be handsome and interesting. Only on the occasion, though,” she said with an easy grace. Daemon moved closer to her.

“That is more like it.” He kissed her cheek tenderly and then amusedly smiled. _His features transform when he smiles, it makes him look younger and even more lovely than he already is._

“You find me handsome?” he asked.

“As sure as the seas are blue.” Laena sighed and leaned into him. Then he kissed her softly and tenderly. There was no urgency to it, no rush or carnal lust. It was what she imagined a kiss of love and affection would feel like, and it warmed her very being like nothing else.

“Will you be victorious, Daemon?” Laena asked after he had pulled away. His eyes were a more vivid lilac than she had noticed before, and he bit his bottom lip before responding.

“As sure as the seas are blue,” he responded calmly, using her own words as a way to comfort her.

“Good,”  she smiled and took hold of his hand.

“Let me show you the ships.”

“I would be honored to gaze upon the pride of Driftmark.”

***

As sure as the seas were blue, Daemon did come out victorious. Ternessio had barely lasted five minutes before her cousin cut him down using Darksister, the valyrian steel sword, also borne by Queen Visenya of old. _He has her sword and I, her dragon, we make quite the match._ The way he moved was like a dance, it was glorious to watch. _He was made for this,_ she thought. _I know I should weep but there was no fondness in my heart for Ternessio._

So it was, that Laena no longer had a betrothed and was free to wed. She did not know how she felt about the ordeal, being a maid of two and twenty, never having been bedded or borne a child. Yet it was a kinder fate than the one she assumed she would have been given with Ternessio.

Later that evening, during supper-- Daemon stood out to make an announcement.

“Dear Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. I thank you for your hospitality but ask if I can make one last request before I depart?” Laena took a deep breath in. _He has not told me that he was planning on leaving._

“Go on,” her mother said as she turned her pale, violet eyes upon Daemon.

“As your daughter does not have a betrothed any longer, I wish to ask for her hand in marriage. She has shown me what it truly means to love,” Daemon said and gave Laena a sweet smile. _Father looks most pleased, as he was never inclined to the prospect of wedding me to an impoverished lord. Mother looks wary and Laenor looks happy_. Alyssia was bursting with glee at the table.

Lord Corlys turned to his wife with a questioning look.

“Please, mother,” Laena said and Princess Rhaenys’s eyes softened.

“If he makes you happy, my child. It is all that matters,” her mother said and her father rose a goblet in toast.

“Let’s all drink to the impending marriage of Prince Daemon and my daughter, Lady Laena.” Everyone rose their glasses high, and Laena took the deepest swig of them all.

***

A fortnight later, they were wed in the sept of Driftmark. Laena had been dressed in the finest dress of Myrish silk and Daemon in a handsome doublet of red and black. Their union remained relatively unknown, only a few handful of the closest confidants were present. Daemon had told Laena that their union would be moving forward without the consent of his brother, the king and that they would have to leave for the Free Cities immediately after. As his brother would be most wroth.

_“He will calm down, though, my sweet and we will be able to return and have a place at court,” her beloved reassured her._

Laenor had only been at Driftmark for a handful of times during Daemon’s visit, as he was wed to Daemon’s niece-- the princess Rhaenyra and held residence on Dragonstone.Yet her brother returned for her wedding, the princess who had grown close with Laena, sadly had to remain behind as she was with child. _The children are not his, both he and I know. Yet he loves them well enough. I cannot find it in my heart to fault and scorn Rhaenyra. If I did, I should have to do the same with Laenor and I cannot._

Laenor and her had a privy moment amongst themselves to speak, before the ceremony was to start.

“He seems a good man,” Laenor said as he popped a grape into his mouth. His silver hair hand been slicked back and his purple eyes were positively glowing. Even though he had lost his beloved Joffrey to Ser Criston Cole, the year before. Laena knew that he had loved the young knight. Joffrey was kind and good and chivalrous.

“He is,” she agreed as she smoothed out her skirts.

“Do you love him?” Laenor asked seriously after a few moments.

“I do. With all my heart.”

“Good, I am happy for you, sister.” His eyes sparkled.

“And if you should ever be done with him, I would be glad to take your scraps. Our cousin is agreeably one of the most handsome men in this world. Imagine what he does with those lips of his--sinful things, I imagine,” Laenor jested and Laena laughed at her brother’s remarks.

“Perhaps I shall come to find out tonight,” she allowed and her brother laughed even harder.

Then his gaze turned fond and melancholy at the same time.

“I love you. If he ever hurts you, I shall feed him to Seasmoke.” _Oh my sweet brother, you have a heart too big for your body._ All Laena did was embrace her twin and stroke his back tenderly.

Then she wed, and they were bound forever. One flesh, one heart and one soul-- as the septons were fond of remarking it. Laena felt whole, in a way she only did with her twin-- as Daemon wrapped his Targaryen cloak around her shoulder. He was glowing from within and the way he gazed at her made her believe in the love singers sang about. There was a softness he conveyed to her, that she knew not many saw. He promised her that there would be no bedding ceremony.

_“It is a shameful ceremony and I would never put you through such a foul experience. You are mine and mine only. As I am yours.”_

After a lovely feast of five courses, Laena grew tired of the ceremony. She wished to be alone with Daemon, away from the lords, ladies and noise. Daemon seemed to sense her unease and asked if she was well. His lilac gaze held a tenderness.

“Yes, simply weary from this gathering.” Daemon nodded in understanding. Then he stood up and announced their leave.

“My wife and I are both weary of the festivities, but enjoy them whilst we retire to our chambers,” he said and the lords let out their ribald jests and bawdy remarks. The ladies swooned when looking upon her husband. _It seems I am most weary of the people._

The walk to their chambers was an unusually silent one. Yet they both drew strength from each other’s presences. Laena’s blood flowed hot in her veins and she knew that it was now that she was to be a woman, for true. _Daemon has done this thousands of times,_ she knew, and a fear that she would not be enough for him bloomed in her chest.

Someone had lit a fire in the hearth when they entered their chambers, and the air smelled of lavender incense. Laena turned around to the sound of Daemon closing the door to the chambers and he smiled a comforting smile.

“Are you sure that you are well?” he asked yet again with a frown.

“Yes,” she responded as strongly as she could.

He walked toward her and tenderly caressed her cheek.

“I did not think I was capable to love, before I met you. Did you know that?” he asked and Laena shook her head.

“Well it is true, no matter how much it hurts my pride to admit.” she smiled a lovely smile as her eyes grew misty.

“Now do not weep, my love,” he said. “This is no time to weep,” he continued and then he kissed her. It was more urgent this time, than any of the times before but Laena gladly returned his affections.

He began unlacing her dress from the back as he kissed whatever inch of skin he could get at. Laena let out a mirthful giggle and Daemon asked her what was so funny.

“That is quite a skill you have there,” she said with her purple eyes alight. Daemon smirked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he jested as Laena stepped out of her white dress.

Daemon remained silent for a few minutes, as if he had lost the power to speak.

“It is your turn now, husband,” she smiled and Daemon sharply breathed in.

“You are absolutely enchanting,” he said and removed his clothing as fast as his hands would let him.

Then he picked her up and placed her on the warm bed as he left feverish, scalding kisses on her neck and body. Then he stopped and his eyes met hers.

“I love you.” Laena took hold of his fair face and kissed him hard in response.

“I know you do. And I do you.”

“Now put a babe in me,” she scolded and Daemon laughed.

“Your wish is my command,” he whispered in her ear.

“Do you promise?” she asked.

“I promise. Forever,” he responded, feverishly.

Not long after that, they left to tour the Free Cities. Along the way, Laena found out she was with child. She birthed twins in Pentos that they named after her mother and his father. Rhaena and Baela were born sickly but did thrive later on, and they were the true joys of their parents. Laena, Rhaena and Baela brought a love out of Daemon that was rarely seen to anyone else.


	11. What does love give us in the end-- but sorrow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laena births Daemon the son he so wanted, but all does not go as it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for some hardcore angst lmao. I always had the idea of how I wanted to write Daemon's reaction to Laena's death, and I truly hope I did our rogue prince justice.
> 
> Please leave a kudos if you enjoyed it and I would REALLY like to hear what y'all thought of this chapter-- as idk... I somehow feel like I missed the mark and that it's not up to the usual standard. So pleaseeee comment down below.
> 
> Until next time :)

 

 

 

It had been a day past since Laena had given birth to their son. He had been a twisted, malformed thing with scaly flesh and the stub of a tail who died an hour after his birth-- yet he had been their son. _My only son. The one I so craved._

_“Valerion,” Laena breathed before she had seen the babe herself. “His name is to be Valerion, why is he not weeping?” She asked with a frown and glassy, violet eyes._

Daemon had ordered the nurses and maesters not to show his beloved wife the babe. _It would crush her so terribly, she needn’t see the horror,_ he thought. He still had not told her that their son perished, he wished to wait until she gathered her strength. The birthing bed had been inexplicably more hard on Laena that that of the birth of their twins’. It was as if she was in a state of madness; with sporadic episodes of a horrible fever and on the occasion; saying things that did not make any coherence.

He was to visit her again now, after having spent the night explaining to his daughters why they would not be receiving another brother. Rhaena wept but Baela took it in stride, _she is truly her father’s daughter._ Daemon did not know how the outcome of the babe had been so horrid; as he had felt his son kick wildly in her womb, like the very strongest of stallions. He was hurt but somehow… he could feel the babe’s memory receding, as if Valerion had never been.

When he walked into the bedward, Princess Rhaenyra, his niece was already there, stroking Laena’s hair in comfort. She had a damp washcloth in her pale hands adorned with rings, that she used to wipe the sweat of off his wife’s forhead.

“How is she?” Daemon asked his niece, who had grown stout after the birth of three, Strong bastards.

“The fever is not relieving its grip of her. I fear for her life, Daemon,” Princess Rhaenyra said with a deep concern and tears in her dark, purple eyes. _They are close friends, she does not wish to see her cousin perish. Nor do I._ The thought of Laena’s death was unfathomable to Daemon.

“Have you sent for your Maester? Gerardys?” Daemon asked. He knew that Rhaenyra always spoke highly of her own Maester at Dragonstone. _These cunts here can only sit by and watch as my wife perishes right before their shrivelled hands._

“I have, he should be arriving on the morrow but I will check the rookery for news,” his niece said as she took her leave. Daemon grabbed hold of the damp washcloth that Rhaenyra left behind and took a seat next to his beautiful wife.

“I am here, my love,” he told his wife as she opened two feverish, violet eyes. A soft smile grazed her lips.

“Daemon,” she said in a voice as soft as silk. “Where is our son, I wish to hold him,” she told her husband. Daemon looked down onto the floor and gently took hold of her hands.

“Laena,” he began but he did not quite know how to get the words out of his mouth. They remained trapped in his treacherous throat. _I do not wish to hurt her like this. No one should be hurt like this._

His wife frowned and smiled again.

“What is it Daemon? Can you bring Valerion to me?” It was as if she was not aware that it was the second time she was requesting the same thing.

“You will never hold him, my love. Neither will I. He is with the gods now.” Daemon’s faith had been lost in the gods so long ago, but he knew that it would provide some inkling of comfort to his wife. So he spoke the words but there was no faith in them.

“What do you mean, Daemon?” her voice wavered and her eyes began to slowly leak tears of pain and loss. _No, my sweet. Please do not._ Daemon wiped each and every one of her feverish tears away with the pads of his thumbs.

“He perished, my love. He never thrived.” Laena burst out in sobs then, horrible ones that only a mother who lost her child could have. _No matter how hard men try, they will never know the pain mothers feel when they lose their babe. A babe that they carried inside them from a little quickening, until its birth nine moons later. How they have felt it move inside them, bring them comfort in trying times. We shan’t ever come close to that grief._

“No, Daemon, no!” she hysterically cried as she tore weakly at the sheets. Daemon grabbed a hold of her and pulled her to his chest.

“Quiet now, my love. It is okay, he is not suffering any longer. When you are well, we can make another.” Laena only wept fiercer.

“How can you say such a thing? We lost our son, Daemon!” she screamed in her time of grief.

“I know, but we have Rhaena and Baela. We must remain strong for them,” he whispered soothingly into her ear as he held her. After moments, his wife had exhausted herself and fell asleep in his arms. He stroked her hair lovingly and kissed her face.

“We shall be alright, my love. You will see,” he whispered into her ear as soft as a lover’s caress. His wife was the impersonation of grief, with her tear-stained cheeks, and whimpering as she slept. Daemon who had not slept since the death of his son, laid down with Laena still in his arms and fell into a horrible yet calm slumber. Where none of this wretched reality was present.

He awoke later in the night and climbed out of the bed, quietly so that he would not wake his wife. _She needs the rest._ Yet when he laid his hand upon her brow, it was as if she was fire made flesh. _She is burning up._ A true fear rooted itself in his heart, _this could be childbed fever, and it can very well claim her life._ _That damned maester needs to get here quicker!_

When Daemon left the bedward, he was greeted by the sight of Rhaenyra.

“She is in a worse state than I first assumed, something must be done quickly,” he told his niece with a voice that was so unlike his confident drawl. Rhaenyra looked pale as a ghost when she answered.

“Maester Gerardys shall be here tomorrow, but I fear that it is almost too late. The Maesters say there is no stopping the fever once it begins.” Tears burned hot behind his eyelids, but Daemon forced them to disappear. _I am the blood of the dragon, and dragons do not weep._ He simply nodded at his niece and took his leave-- to visit his children and have them get ready for the funeral pyre.

***

“Father, when is mother going to be well again?” his fearless Baela asked. Daemon frowned as he helped comb her silver-gold locks.

“I am not sure, Baela,” he responded in a voice as distant as the north.

“I miss mother,” Rhaena cried and Daemon shushed her whilst putting down the comb on the vanity. He opened his arms and both of the girls joined him in a fierce embrace as they wept.

“Your mother loves you very much, and so do I. Never forget, my children.” They snivelled in response and Daemon wondered when it was that he left his old self behind and took over this new persona of a loving father and dutiful husband. _When Laena and I wed._

The air was chilly and brought a sense of doom, as they stepped outside. Rhaena and Baela were dressed in their gowns of wool, and him in his doublet. Rhaenyra was there with Laenor and her children. His son, Valerion, was brought out by the maester and put in the pyre. They all stood in a haughty silence as the master spoke.

“From the fire you were born, and to the fire you shall return. May the Mother bring you into her sweet arms as the Father guides you tenderly. They will give you the life that you were not meant to have upon this earth of pain and sorrow. An endless life of mirth and joy awaits you, and when the time comes; your family shall join you on your journey that is beyond,” The maester said in his shaky voice and Daemon scoffed. _No gods would do this._

It was he who lit the pyre and watched the flames engulf and lick at his son with their immense heat. It gave Daemon some comfort that the babe did not have to linger in pain and that his death was clean. His little girls gripped his hands fiercely, but did not look away from the fire. _They are Targaryens, through and through._ It was as if Daemon could barely feel any longer, he knew he should feel more sorrow for the demise of his son, yet… It was as if his son had been a fever dream, and thusly, never truly been.

Laenor was in tears, for the loss of his nephew-- or the impending one of his sister? No one could really say but even Rhaenyra comforted him in his grief. _They were never averse to each other_ , Daemon noted. Laenor simply did not enjoy what Rhaenyra could offer. Daemon could not stand to be there any longer, so he quickly bid them goodbye and took his children back to their chambers.

“Is Valerion with the mother above, now?” Rhaena asked and Daemon nodded.

“He is. She will take better care of him than we ever could,” Daemon told his children even though he did not believe his own words. _Valerion is dead and gone to ashes. That is all he is and ever will be._

“Can we visit mother tomorrow?” Baela asked in turn, her purple eyes turning more vivid in the candlelight. Daemon kissed her brow.

“Of course.” Then he tucked his children in and departed, for he had an inkling that the morrow that awaited him-- would be more difficult than that of today.

***

The morn started with an ominous note as there were no birds chirping outside in the yards. _Strange,_ Daemon thought. He quickly dressed himself and walked down the granite stairs to break his fast alongside his daughters. He was stopped by a half-crazed servant who spoke to him.

“My prince, Maester Gerardys arrived and the Princess begged me to ask you to come quickly,” the homely woman rushed out in her Flea Bottom accent. Daemon nodded and followed her as quickly as his legs bore him.

“What is the matter?” Daemon asked Rhaenyra as he entered. The maester turned to him.

“I fear that I have tried everything I can, mayhaps if I had been here sooner, my efforts may have proved fruitful, yet they are but futile.” his words were calm and collected as a fire boiled within Daemon.

“Speak plainly, maester,” Daemon told the man in a voice as cold as Valyrian steel. He was greeted with sad, blue eyes.

“She will not live through the day, it seems. The fever begun too early. I am sorry, my prince,” The maester bowed and Rhaenyra called for the septas and septons.

“Pray over her, maybe the gods shall deem her worthy of being kept with us,” she said in a tearful voice. “Whatever happens shall be the will of the gods, Daemon,” she continued and he scoffed.

“Fuck the gods,” he said angrily and told them all to wait outside. He wanted a few moments alone with his wife. When they had all departed, he gently woke his wife.

“Daemon, is that you?” Laena asked feverishly. “Are you really here?” she continued.

“I will always be here,” he responded. “Forever, remember?” she smiled a content smile in her bed of blood. _There is so much blood,_ _too much,_ he thought in alarm.

“Where is our son?” she asked and Daemon furrowed his brows.

“I told you yesterday-”

“-Valerion. My sweet Valerion, he looked like you in my dream. He had your eyes and build, but my hair and nose. Oh, he was so beautiful, Daemon. Like you,” she said as she gazed at him with unfocused, violet eyes that had lost their spark. _She is not herself._

“He told me that I would see him again, soon. So where is he?” she asked and Daemon ran a hand through his silvery hair. _What do I tell her? Will she even remember._ He leaned his forehead against hers and felt her burning heat.

“You will see him again. I promise.” His words were a mere whisper as he spoke them and Laena smiled.

“Vhagar, it has been too long since I rode her. Is she here?”

“Yes. But you shall not be able to ride her. Not here.” her smile turned into a whimper as she regained a sense of reality.

“I am going to die, am I not?” she asked and Daemon never again wanted to hear her voice take on such a scared, hopeless pitch.

“No,” he choked out, but it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself, more than her.

“I do not want to die, Daemon,” she told him in a plea and he fervently shook his head.

“You are not,” he told her as a treacherous tear escaped his eyes of lilac.

“I always thought I was wild and fearless but… look at me now,” she said with a sad scoff.

“I am weeping in my bed like an old crone,” she laughed a mirthless laugh and Daemon moved to hold her.

“I love you,” she said.

“And I do you. But you are not going to die,” he continued in a broken voice. “I promise.” she looked at him with a sad gaze.

“You should not make promises you cannot keep.” Then she laid back down in her bed of blood and lost consciousness. _Rhaena and Baela wish to see their mother, to say goodbye, how will I show them this? It is better than nothing,_ he thought. Then he rose to fetch their children before Laena’s time was gone.

He arrived in the hall late, to his daughters’ dismay.

“Where were you, father?” his fierce Baela asked and he simply beckoned them to come forward.

“Come on, little ones. We are to pay a visit upon your mother.” The girls squealed and followed him immediately, their bodies a blur of silver-gold and red. He hoped that he would be able to wake Laena from her slumber.

Within minutes, they arrived and were standing outside the bedward where Laena was being kept.

“Do not put any stress on your mother. She is unwell, be good to her, alright my sweets?” Daemon asked and his daughters dutifully nodded. Their hopeful glances turned sad when he opened the door to her chamber.

“Mother,” Rhaena whispered in horror as she took in the form of her sleeping mother, who was burning up with a fever and laying in a bed of blood. Her usual lustrous hair was matted and it stuck to her face as she shivered.

“I am so cold, Daemon,” she whispered in her sleep. Daemon moved to touch her and she was scalding.

“Wake up, my love. Our children are here,” he whispered gently into her ear and the feverish look returned.

“Valerion too?” she asked and Daemon shook his head, sadly.

“Him you will meet another time.” Laena smiled at that and beckoned the girls to come forward.

“Mother!” Baela said and embraced Laena fiercely, Rhaena did the same after following her sister’s lead.

“My sweet girls,” Laena said as she held the two. “I love you,” she smiled sadly. She stayed silent for a long moment, before reality once again took its grip of her and she knew what it was that she must do.

“Now listen here, my children,” Laena began as the children cozied up next to her, as if they were babes again.

“You must be good for you papa when I am not here any longer,” she continued and Rhaena began sobbing. Daemon stood in the shadows, watching the heart-wrenching moment.

“Please do not leave us, mother,” she cried and Laena stroked her hair as a gentle comfort.

“I shall stay as long as I am able, for you, my children.” Baela paled at her mother’s words, for she understood what they meant, truly. _Her doom is coming soon, and neither of us are ready to depart from each other._

Then, Laena’s strength begun to fail her. Daemon told their children to kiss their mother goodbye, and they did so, tearfully. When they exited the chambers, the septons and septas began resuming their position, and praying over the body of his wife. Whatever inkling of remote faith that remained to Daemon, was put in the will for his wife to live. _If she lives, I shall light a candle to each god on each morrow, for as long as I shall live._ He did not know what he would do if she did not.

***

Daemon returned to Laena’s chambers after supper and was duly confused to not find her there, and then he was frightened. _Has she passed and no one told me?_ He would hang them all, septons, septas and maesters, if it was so. He found a septon in the shade of the room and grabbed the man by his collar.

“Where is my wife?” Daemon sneered.

“She rose and pushed us away, she mumbled something about that beast Vhagar,” the man said in a terrified, light voice. Daemon threw the man to the floor and ran to through the halls, intent on finding his wife before she overexerted herself to her death.

When he climbed the tower steps, he saw a pale form lay still on the fifth step. No, no, no. Daemon picked his wife up into his arms and cradled her as tears fell freely.

“Laena, please stay with us, please,” he begged her, the gods, anyone who would listen.

“Daemon. I wish to ride Vhagar,” she mumbled in her melodic voice that lacked any sort of vigor or intent. _No. That shan’t ever happen again._ _My sweet, kind and graceful wife, do not leave me. Please stay with me_ , Daemon begged but no words escaped his mouth.

“I promised you forever. Your wish is my command and you told me you did not want to die. You cannot die, please do not go,” he cried into her ear and kissed her cheek. His wife smiled a wretched smile, the smile where you come to terms with what is coming and embrace it fully. _The Stranger is already here,_ he thought.

“Oh, Daemon, do not weep,” she whispered with no strength to her words.

“You were more than a woman to me, Laena. You were the only one I ever loved, look how far we came,” he said with a ruined smile. “You gave me two beautiful children along with a love that I thought I should never come to know in my life. You cannot leave me in ruins,” he continued.

“You have our girls. Take care of them,” her words were abrupt and he knew the end was close. _Too close._ Daemon nodded intensely but refused to acknowledge her departure from this life.

“You will be there to guide me through it. I am better with women than I am with daughters.” Laena smiled at his comment but began wheezing violently.

“Shh,” Daemon comforted as he ran a hand through her silver-gold locks.

“Please,” she begged.

“What?” Daemon asked as he held his dying wife in his arms.

“Please kiss me one last time. I want to feel you, please,” she cried feverishly and fought to keep her violet eyes open. Daemon nodded and tenderly placed his own lips on hers. _Cold, they are too cold. It is more like a kiss of death_. Laena closed her eyes with a soft smile to her face. She never opened them again, and died there, on the tower steps. It was Daemon who carried her lifeless body, back to bedward. He spoke no word, but simply watched as they prepared her corpse.

Daemon did not know when Rhaenyra returned to sit vigil with him, but he was grateful she made no effort to converse, other than a gentle stroke to his back on the occasion. His mind was full of images that had been and would never come to be. Laena had not even been thirty namedays when she perished; she was seven and twenty. _Too young._

He remembered when she first told him that she was with Valerion and how she had glowed so fiercely with a maternal love, unparalleled.

_“The maesters say I am with child,” Laena smiled happily and cradled the little bump on her belly. Daemon smiled and thought that he would finally have his son._

_“It is about time, we have not been lacking in the trying aspect,” he jested with a wicked smile and Laena threw one of the satin pillows at him._

_“You have too filthy a mouth for your own good, you know?” she told him and he nodded._

_“Yes, but you love it, do you not?”_

_“I do,” she smiled fondly as her violet eyes sparkled in the candlelight._

He sat up all night, mute until he fell asleep against Rhaenyra’s shoulder. He felt his niece pat his arm gently, as he fell into a sleep where Laena was still alive and glowed with her fearless light. When he woke, the silent sisters were done preparing her body. He saw that Rhaenyra had also fallen asleep against him, so he gently laid her down on the bench and covered her with a quilt he found.

He warily moved to the table where she was laying. It was as if he was not the strong, confident prince anymore-- but a weary man who had lost one of his most valuable treasures. _It does not look like her_ , he thought as he looked upon the still, cold body. _Laena was always in motion; she lived to laugh and loved to fly. This woman looks empty and haughty. Like she is carved out of stone._

He removed the painted stones they used to cover her eyes _. They closed her eyes at the very least._ Laena was laid in an eerily peaceful manner, her hands crossed at her chest-- wearing a pale blue gown with red and black threading. Her silver-gold curls were brushed and adorned with little rubies. _This is not you._ A silent tear escaped his eyes yet he still did not speak any words, in his hour of grief.

Gently, Daemon reached out a large hand to caress her cold cheek. Only the past week, had they been laughing and jesting, wondering what they would name this child. _I entered the bedward with a wife and a son, I left with naught but ashes and sorrow._ He missed her already. Her coy smiles and gentle nature, her fearlessness and love for their family. _Oh, to be in your arms again._

Leaning forward, he kissed his wife for the very last time, on her cold and dead lips. Then he kissed her brow and leaned into her ear to speak as he gripped her hand.

“Your death will not have been for naught. I promise you, love,” he began and then turned to look at the sleeping Rhaenyra.

“Our daughter will be queen, and not the consort to a bastard-- but to her brother. She will rule, and her children after her. I swear to you that I shall make house Velaryon even closer to the crown and honor your name until my very last breaths. I will always love you. Only you. It was always you,” he finished and looked away before the pain became to much. _One day I shall find my way back to you, i’ll meet you there-- on the other side._

She would never be there to comfort him again, to love their children or fill the halls with her light spirit. _I had grown so used to being someone she loved._ He closed his eyes and let go of her lip hand. Then he moved to wake Rhaenyra.

After Laena’s death, her brother and Princess Rhaenyra’s husband suspiciously died. Not even a year after their death, did both Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra remarry-- to each other. Daemon was finally given the sons he so craved, by a wife who did not perish birthing them.

His daughter Baela was to be queen when Rhaenyra’s son, Jacaerys ruled after his mother. Daemon had slightly different plans, but before they could be put in motion; a war broke out, so violent that even he would not survive it. His children would, though. Yet no daughters of his became queens, but both of his sons came to rule after both their parents’ deaths. A bittersweet victory indeed, for our rogue prince.

 


	12. The Nightingales are drunk on our pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visenya and Aegon hear of the death of Rhaenys, their sister-- and are duly upset about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought i'd slide in here and give you a chapter of some real angst because... I don't know-- it's healthy to have a nice amount of angst mixed in with the fluff on some occasions.
> 
> Beware that I wrote this pretty late on a school night, half-asleep, so i'm sorry if it's terrible.  
> Also it hasn't been edited lol but I hope you like it.
> 
> (Also: i'm pretty trash at writing steamy scenes, so I truly apologise if it's cringeworthy)
> 
> Don't forget to pleaseeeeee COMMENT down below and give a KUDOS if you liked it. I'd be grateful for anything you have to say :) 
> 
> Goodnight and until next time,

 

 

 

Bitter, hot tears grazed the warrior queen’s angry, flushed cheeks as she sat in her chambers. All alone, with only the darkness to hold. Visenya had just hours earlier, learned of her beloved sister, Rhaenys’s death at Hellholt in Dorne. _ It should have been me, _ she thought bitterly.  _ It should have been me.  _

At first Visenya refused to believe that the uncultured Dornishmen had actually succeeded in shooting down Meraxes from the clouds along with her younger sister, but indeed it was the truth of it. Never known to show weakness, the queen acknowledged the death of her sister with a haughty silence and begged to be excused on the grounds of not feeling well. _I am not feeling well, I lost my sister._ _The one I loved from the moment she was born and continued to love throughout the rest of our years._ The Queen Rhaenys had brought out a certain humanity in Visenya, that neither King Aegon, their parents or anyone else for that matter had been successful in finding.

Aegon had nodded in a stony silence as they told him of the more gruesome details of her death. Yet Visenya saw the tears in his glassy, indigo eyes _. I saw them. No matter how hard he tried to hide it. A king cannot ever show his pain,it matters not how much it hurts him. That is the burden we kings and queens must live with _ .  _ We must act like monsters to be worshipped as gods.  _ Visenya could not recall the last time she had wept like this, nor the last time Aegon wept. _ It must have been when Rhaenys gave him the frail Aenys. A son that I could not. That I have not.  _ There was still time for our queen Visenya to procure another heir for her king, though.  _ Time that Rhaenys will never receive. _

A growl escaped _ Visenya’s lips. I do not even wish to have children, it was always Rhaenys’s will and now she will not be there to see her son grow and have heirs of his own. _ Her sister was light, laughter and joy. A beauty beyond words, good and kind.  _ All the things I am not and never will be. _ Visenya knew that Aegon wished it was her who had perished at the Hellholt, and somehow she could not find it in her to scorn or blame him. A cruel twist of a smile graced Visenya’s ruby red lips _. I cannot blame him for what it is I wish, myself.  _ She would have gladly traded her own life for that of her sister’s.  _ Yet that is not how these treacherous and fickle gods of death work, is it? No, sadly not. _

After hours of weeping until there were no more tears to be found, Visenya rejoiced in the numbness that it had given her. A thought entered her mind, however. _ I should visit Aegon and see how he is faring. _ Even though they had never been close and their relationship not near as warm as that of his and their younger sister; she felt obliged out of duty, to make a visit upon her husband. Rhaenys and Aegon had shared a scalding, fiery love that could not be quenched.  _ Fire is death. _ Visenya and her brother’s was more like lukewarm soup;  _ You eat it when it is put in front of you; yet it is not the dish you search for or want. _

Visenya rose from her soft, feathered bed and donned a gown of silver silk.  _ Myrish, it was always Rhaenys’s favorite. _ The gown was lovely, it was even Rhaenys who had it commissioned for Visenya, before her death. It clung to the warrior queen’s tight, corded body as sword in a scabbard. With its deep neckline and flowy bottom; One would have said that Visenya looked a true queen in that moment. Silver-gold strands in a tight braid and a circlet of rubies circling the pale, silvery crown of her hair. Visenya’s beautiful, deep purple eyes were rimmed with red and looked haunting. They burned into your very soul and uncovered all your secrets, those you wished so hard to keep. When she tried to smile, it looked more like a grimace.  _ My face was not made for smiles. Rhaenys’s was. _

With a dark, tragic grace, Queen Visenya departed from her chamber, down the soft marble halls of the south, into where she knew she would find her husband, his solar. Her steps were fast but paced; her manner austere and unyielding. She felt like the goddess of death, haunting the castle with her ghostly presence.  _ Now that Rhaenys is gone, there is not laughter ringing in the halls, no happy maids, singers or lusty lords. They flocked to Rhaenys like birds to a nest.  _ Now that only Visenya and Aegon remained; the lords and ladies were wary.  _ We were never as well-liked as her, me even less so, than Aegon. _

Visenya drew a sharp, steadying breath as her steps halted outside of Aegon’s solar. She knocked thrice upon the oaken, dragon-carved door. A strong shout of rage was heard from the other side.

“I told you to leave me be!” her brother’s usually confident and well-poised voice cracked at the ends. Visenya did not bother replying, but instead opened the chambers with one slender arm. 

Her brother who had been gazing out of the tall window, turned to her, prepared to shout but in the last moment; decided against it. Visenya closed the door as she walked closer to Aegon. His short silver-gold hair was an untamed mess and his shirt half-unbuttoned.  _ He reeks of Arbor Gold.  _ Aegon’s handsome face looked haunting and weary as she gazed upon it. His indigo eyes were rimmed red, as she was sure that her deep, purple ones still were.

“You are drunk,” Visenya acknowledged in a tone not far from disgust. Her brother begot a fiery, angry look-- filled with the utmost contempt as he took her form in.  _ He despises me, and has every right to. _

“Should I be dancing around in joy? She was my wife, I loved her! Forgive me for not being able to be as cold regarding it, as you,” her husband scoffed in anger as he took another swig from his goblet. 

“You are not the only one who loved her. She was my sister, and my wife too.” Visenya’s cold and eerie voice echoed around the silent chamber as they both turned to watch the sun as it was to set.

“Forgive me. I forgot myself in my grief,” Aegon began. “I know you loved her. As she did you, too,” he finished. Visenya nodded tersely. 

“We will bring them fire and blood. That I promise you, husband. We shall set every keep, house and desolate desert ablaze until there is nothing left but ruin, tragedy and blood.” Her voice was commanding, filled with a passion that only loss could bring out. Aegon nodded fiercely.

“We shall. We shall,” he agreed. 

Then he sat down at the table and offered Visenya wine. There was only one goblet present, so he filled his and gave it to her. The sweet, fruity taste touched her lips and left them sticky and glistening in the light of dusk. A letter was present on the table.  _ Most like regarding the manner of our sister’s death.  _

“Some say,” Her brother’s voice cracked and spoke of a great sorrow, as he barely got the words out. Visenya remained patient.

“Some say that she survived the fall,” he continued and Visenya breathed in quickly. _ She might have lived?  _ A hope graced the queen’s thoughts.

“Rhaenys might be alive?” She questioned Aegon sharply, but he shook his head as a treacherous tear of anger escaped his eyes.

“And that she was taken to be tortured wickedly by the Ullers of Hellholt, until her demise.” His words were hard and cold, but Visenya saw how they affected him. _Our sweet sister who used to beg me to braid her hair like mine._ _Rhaenys who came without the vanity and cruelness of those born as wealthy and beautiful as her._ Angry sobs lodged themselves in Visenya’s throat, so she waited a long time before she spoke.

“We will burn them first.” Her words were ice, colder than the winds in the north and the snow that grazed the north of the wall. They were rooted with a deep hatred and anger. 

“I promise you that,” Aegon replied feverishly. Visenya nodded and took another full sip of the wine as she felt the buzzing of her mind and calming of her soul.  _ The Arbor Gold was always Rhaenys’s favorite. She found the Dornish red to be too sour for her taste.  _

“Do you remember how she would pretend to be a maiden in distress, just to be saved by her big, fierce brother?” Visenya asked Aegon as he smiled with a sad fondness.

“I remember she was fond of stealing kisses, from the both of us. And then the knights and lords as she grew older,” he replied in an even tone as he took the cup from Visenya’s pale hands and drank deeply from it. 

“She was always fond of kisses and songs,” Visenya allowed with a rare smile, so soft and lovely that it transformed her features and made her almost equal Rhaenys in beauty.

“She was your fiercest defender, from her birth until now. She always understood you more than anyone could ever claim to,” his words were kind but his voice melancholy as he spoke them. His burning eyes met hers and he looked tempting with his tragic beauty and fond words.  _ He shaved his beard, letting his strong jaw be more pronounced. _ Aegon’s aquiline nose made him look fierce and inhumanly beautiful at the same time, and then his lips always looked to be in a pout, as they were full and weighed down by the bow of his lips.  _ A dragon’s beauty,  _ Visenya thought. _ We all have it, to some degree. Some receive it soft and others harsh. Some are at a place in the middle, as Aegon is. _

“Do you recall when Rhaenys accidentally tore that map from before the doom, and started weeping at the thought of what mother and father would do? So we took the blame instead and father struck us both bloody for our insolence and carelessness. Gods, she waited upon us like royals, as her soft heart bled with remorse, for several moons!” Visenya relished in the sweet memories of their good sister.  _ She was like neither of us, and that was her blessing and curse. _ Aegon nodded as tears welled up as he too, dug deep into the depths of his mind for similar ones.

“She lived a good life,” Aegon said as he turned his distant gaze to the window, once again. It was night out by then,  _ and all the terror it brings. _

“We have been sitting here for quite some time,” Visenya interjected, as the silent brooding was too much for even her, to take.

“Indeed,” Aegon allowed with a terse nod. 

“There will be lords hounding you in a few moons, you must prepare,” she told him in a distant voice that touched these dreary walls and made them speak.

“They are already hounding me, I do not think I shall come to know a time when they are  _ not  _ hounding me.” Her brother’s voice held a rueful tone. Visenya shook her head.  _ He must know.  _

“I mean that they will be offering you their pretty, little maiden daughters who moisten their smallclothes at the thought of your cock in them and the crown that you bring. The lords will highly advise you to wed again and take another wife, who may bear you more heirs than Aenys.” Aegon sharply turned to look at her with a gaze that bespoke his dragon’s blood.

“I am wed to you.” His words were stone, as was his face.

“You were also wed to Rhaenys. They will think it prudent that you take another and bring attention to the statements of how I have not yet come to bear you a daughter or a son.” 

“There is time still,” he told her and Visenya shook her head sadly.  _ Only by dark, ancient magic shall I bear you a son. When the time comes, it will be. But you need never know. _

“As you say,” she allowed in a voice that bore little hope for their future.

“I will refuse each and every one of their damned daughters. I remained faithful to Rhaenys, as I will remain faithful to you. I am no weak man, subject to my carnal lusts. A cunt is not so different from a hand when you crave release,” his words were crude, as hers oft were, yet they bore the distinct ring of truth to them. _ He is right, as he often is.  _ She decided to change the topic of discussion.

“When is her body being returned to us, so we may properly bury her?” Visenya asked into the distance. Aegon grew rigid.

“They will not,” he told her as he took her form in with his eyes of the old freehold. 

“What do you mean?” she questioned sharply with a tinge of rage to her words. 

“I mean that they will not return us to her. They mean to relish in their victory and goad us, reminding us of what we lost.” Aegon stood up, walked toward the hearth and threw the goblet of wine at the fire, with a strength unparalleled, and Visenya watched as its contents spilled onto the dark floor, illuminated by the glow of the moon. 

She stood up and walked over to where Aegon was standing, so close that she could feel his sweet, hot breath tickling her face. With an an angry push to the wall behind him, she spoke with a fervor.

“Then we will make them! We will burn their cities to the ground, lay waste to their barren deserts and rip them from the earth, root and stem!” the words echoed off of the walls and only brought more of a fury to her husband.

“They are Martells!” he yelled so loudly that Visenya was sure there would be a gathering of people outside the chambers if he continued any longer.

“They will more like spit in our faces as we try to torture it out of them. It is no use. That old toad told Rhaenys as much when she visited the first time. We did not listen, and now look at what we lost!” Visenya slapped him hard. Aegon grew wild in the light of the silvery moon.

“Stop!” she yelled at him, her usually composed voice failing her and leaving cracks in its wake.  _ I am so sorry Rhaenys. So sorry, you would not even know.  _ Aegon gripped her arms and leaned closer until their noses were touching.

“I lost her for this damned throne. Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. I would pay any cost to be in her arms again,” his voice was angry, feral and full of sorrow-- all at the same time. 

“Do you not think I will hear her childish giggles, full of mirth, each time I go to sleep? Or dream of how they held and tortured the sweet sister I held to my chest and whispered sweet words to, as a dream of horror entered her mind at night?” Visenya yelled out in her voice of steel, and Aegon winced as her words reached him. Instead of replying, he gazed at her intensely, she watched as vivid, indigo eyes turned almost black in the candlelight. He bit the bottom of his lip and released it from the hold of his teeth--glistening and scarlet. Then Aegon pushed her against the table and spilled the tankard of wine, some of it on Visenya’s dress. _ It matters not. I was not like to wear it again, anyway. _

His soft lips were on hers, fervent and demanding. They were hot like fire burns, rushed and sweet. _ He tastes of the Arbor gold. _ They were a fumbling, drunken mess of anger and tears-- feverish hands grasping anywhere they could reach for comfort. Her slender fingers unbuttoned the rest of Aegon’s buttons and felt the rippling, smooth chest beneath. He breathed a sweet sound, somewhere in between lust and sorrow.  _ The line is very blurred between those two, as of now. _

It was Aegon’s turn to remove the silvery dress that had hitched its way up Visenya’s defined, alabaster thighs, as she leaned upon the wooden table. She slipped out of the dress with an easy gaze and felt the cold air of the night cover her skin in gooseprickles. _ Aegon warms me, it is like he is fire reborn. _ His large hands left scalding traces on her skin as she wrapped her legs around his waist feverishly.

“Oh, Senya,” was all he repeated gruffly, as he continued his rushed assaults on her body. 

Visenya pulled his breeches down as his head was in the shadow of her neck and felt him enter her with a crazed ferocity. Their kisses turned into a mess of bruised lips and clashing teeth--hands in silky, silver-gold hair. She held onto his neck with her arms and they were close as anyone could ever be, as he pushed against her fiercely in the moonglow.  _ Let no one ever claim that they were closer than we are in this moment. It is as if we are one,  _ Visenya thought. 

Their bodies molded together in a terrible combination of lust and anger and a heartbreaking pain that left no one alive to sing its songs.

“Aegon!” Visenya did not know if it was a cry of lust or if she was weeping his name, she was far too lost in his body to even care. She knew that she would be bruised and sore, come the morrow.  _ For this, it is all worth it.  _ Her cries made her husband move even more vigorously until they both caught their release.

“Oh, Rhaenys,” Aegon cried out before he slumped down against her body, flat down on the table. It did not even matter to Visenya. She laid there in a state of false bliss, with salty, wet tears staining her flushed cheeks, down onto her swollen lips.  _ I cannot bring myself to move, and neither can he, as he is still inside me. _

Deep intakes of air was all that was heard in the dreary chamber. Visenya rejoiced in her husband’s hot breaths, in the crook of her neck. _ It feels like home, all that is missing is Rhaenys next to us. _ Her husband’s absent-minded caresses from her side, down to her thighs almost lulled her into a sleep where she knew that she would not be haunted by her sister’s ghost. That was until he began to silently shake and she felt his tears stain her body, too. She stroked his silver-gold hair in comfort, something she would usually leave to Rhaenys.  _ Had she been here. _

“I miss her. So much,” he cried and Visenya comforted her younger brother in his grief.  _ The duty must fall to me this once. I am the oldest, after all. _

“She made me laugh when I knew not how, I was not whole until she made me,” he continued in heart-wrenching sounds of a wicked pain amongst their sweaty, tired bodies.  _ Me neither, brother. Me neither.  _

Visenya stopped petting her husband’s hair in soft strokes and instead embraced him fully with both arms, pressing her naked chest against his sculpted one. Something she knew that she would never again do. Aegon was not a king in this moment. He was but a man who had lost the true joy of his life. _ He is broken and hurting-- he wishes to mend his pain with short-term remedies, but it will not will the hole of grief in his heart, to go away. He must needs live with it, as I will, too. _

“Oh, I know. I know,” she comforted him as he gripped her back, fiercely in a plea to anchor himself to something, to remain grounded. 

Four years after Queen Rhaenys’s death atop her dragon in Dorne-- Queen Visenya gave birth to a healthy, robust son that she named Maegor. Another heir for her husband. She did not yet know, how much trouble he would bring the world, or what role she would play in bringing it.


	13. To love and to lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naerys births her twins. Aemon and Daeron are there as the world comes crashing down upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some Aemon and Naerys angst for y'all. I truly am fascinated by these two and i'm so sad for what they had to endure. 
> 
> please leave a kudos if you liked it and I live for your comments down below, so please leave one.
> 
> i'm thinking I might do Rhaenys and Visenya next, along with Shiera and Brynden. Idk though, maybe a surge of inspiration will reach me with another Targ couple.

 

 

 

 

“Daenerys. Daenerys is to be her name. For the strong, beautiful Targaryen princess who died before her time,” Naerys breathed just before she slipped into a darkness of the unknown. Aemon was holding her hand as he felt it go limp in his grasp, and screamed for the maester to do something, anything for his sister to hold on to the already feeble grasp she had on her life. The wizened old maester begged Aemon to move so that he could attempt to do what he was able, but Aemon stood paralyzed in shock and fear.  _ No she cannot. Not this time. She survived Daeron and will survive Daenerys. She must-- or my final act will be killing our brother who killed her.  _

_ Maybe I killed her as much as Aegon did,  _ Aemon thought as bitter, frightened tears escaped his eyes of amethysts. After all, who knew if they were his or Aegon’s?  _ No one ever will. The truth lives only with the gods, and there it shall remain for all time _ . A gentle hand touched Aemon’s shoulder, and he turned around to meet the same purple eyes, as his own. Daeron was a man of ten and nine, already wed, with a son of his own-- yet being a man did not erase his fear of losing his mother, or harden his heart so that he would not weep.  _ My nephew… or son. Whatever he is; he is good and will make a just king. He has the best of Naerys and none of Aegon. _

“She will be alright, you shall see, uncle.” Even though Daeron tried to control the waver in his voice, and look down onto the cold floors-- Aemon saw the pain he so tried to hide.  _ Aegon would laugh at him and call him a weak, craven boy for weeping because of a mere woman.  _ Aemon knew that Daeron was none of those. A shrill cry disturbed the men from their aching thoughts. It was the newborn Daenerys, red and squalling she was. Yet the other one remained as silent as only death could be. Aemon’s heart dropped in his chest.  _ It is dead, is it not? She never gave it its name. _

“Would you like to hold her, my princes?” The nurse asked and both of them nodded vigorously. Daeron reached his arms out to embrace his sister first. Her violet eyes, so like her mother’s, opened and gazed at the amethyst ones of her brother. A fine tuft of silver-gold hair lay upon her head.

“Hello, little one,” Daeron said as he smiled at the babe and kissed her cheek softly. Little Daenerys smiled in response to his kisses and reached a small hand out to grasp his hair. Aemon decided to ask the nurse about the other babe. Daenerys’s twin. 

“What about the other one?” He asked the stout nurse with a constant frown on her weathered face. She begot a queer, melancholy look as she gazed at him and spoke the words so sadly.

“Stillborn, m’afraid. T’was a boy as beautiful as that one. Right over there if y’wanna say your goodbyes.” Aemon felt a heaviness claim his chest, yet he knew. He’d known from the moment Naerys pushed him out of her and he did not weep a single cry. Aemon nodded tearfully and walked over to the adjacent chamber, where the dead babe lay in the cot. The master had still not returned after he left with Naerys. 

The boy was still, and so cold to the touch as Aemon grazed a slender finger to its cheek. There was no smiles or cries. No violet eyes to be opened or childish laughter to be found.  _ This is death, in its most tragic form. _ This boy would never grow up to wed and have babes of his own. To feel the joy of life or the rush of loving someone. Trust Aemon when he says that nothing would have hurt him more in that moment, except maybe the death of his sister. Trust him.  _ This child might have been my son. _

His hair was longer than that of his sister’s and it was more silvery, but it somehow felt more brittle and dead to the touch. A pain lodged itself deep within Aemon as he whispered a sweet goodbye to the babe and carefully kissed its forehead. A tear forced itself from his glassy eyes, down onto the babes face. Tenderly with a father’s love, Aemon wiped it away.

“She would have wanted to name you Baelon. I know it,” he whispered softly and walked away, before he would not be able to.

When he passed the nurse again, he stopped to look at her.

“Please have them ready a pyre. He is Targaryen and shall be given to the fire.” She nodded and left to take care of the matter at hand. Daeron was still holding his little sister, rocking her softly in his arms and speaking in a soft, foreign tongue.  _ Valyrian,  _ Aemon knew. Daeron turned his head toward Aemon with a sad smile as he noticed his arrival.

“She is beautiful, is she not? She has mother’s eyes. Would you like to hold her, uncle?” Aemon nodded tenderly. _ This one might be my daughter.  _ As he received the little bundle in his arms, his heart ached excruciatingly for a life that was never meant to be his. A life that would never be.  _ My sweet little girl. _ Aemon smiled at the young babe and was astounded to see it be reciprocated. He leaned forward as she grasped his silver curls, the same way she had done Daeron’s.

“She is gentle of nature, calm and sweet. She will grow into a lovely lady, I am sure,” Aemon told Daeron, without breaking the slightest of eye contact with the newborn princess.

“She will,” Daeron promised. Then he paused before he spoke again. 

“The other one?” he asked with eyes pleading for the littlest of hope in Aemon’s reply.  _ There is none. _

“Stillborn. You should say your goodbyes, I ordered them to ready a pyre for him.” Daeron ran a stressed hand through his silver-gold hair but nodded in understanding. Then he left the room to greet his dead brother, whilst also saying his goodbyes at the same time. 

Daenerys was beginning to fall asleep in his arms and Aegon had not visited even once. Bitterness and a surge of contempt bloomed within the Dragonknight’s chest as he thought of his gluttonous brother.  _ Aegon is the one who deserves to perish, not Naerys or the son she lost.  _ Aemon felt so hopelessly sorry for his sister.  _ She is a good and kind woman, it is time she had her sweet ending to her heart-wrenching story. She has been so dutiful and it is her right. _

That night, Aemon fell asleep dreaming of babes that never lived. Children that would never be his, and the kisses and embraces of the one he loved the most. Trust him when he said that he never wished to leave. He never wished to leave. Yet he had to, in the end.

***

Weeks passed and there was no change in Naerys. Aemon grew ever more restless and weary as each day came and went with the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. He began each day with a prayer to the Mother. _ Dear Mother above, bring my sister her life and I shall give my life to thee. If need be, take it and make it hers _ . _ I should rather die a thousand deaths than be here to live through a single one of hers _ . The Mother never did send him her reply.

Alongside Daeron, he would visit Naerys as she remained in her comatose state.  _ This room smells sweet with the scent of death and an untimely doom.  _ It unnerved him so. Daeron would mostly speak and Aemon would sit quietly as he listened, with Daenerys in his arms. It was Daeron’s notion to bring the girl, for he thought that maybe her presence would wake the mother within Naerys and force her back to the world of those who were still living.

When Daeron would take his leave, however, Aemon would remain. He’d make sure that there were no one but them left in the room, and he would weep. He would weep and beg her to return to him, to love him and hold him.

_ “I cannot do this without you. I will not look upon his face another day and give my life to protect him, if you are not here to be my strength and I, yours.” _ Sometimes he felt as if Naerys was listening, and later on, her hands would somehow squeeze his back, too. The gesture comforted him in a way the gods never could.  _ She is my god.  _

Though neither Aemon nor Naerys could ever fathom why it was their brother despised them so, they found a unity in each other. Aegon came once to hold his daughter and to sanction the name given to her. He looked as if he could not have cared any less. _ He wanted to go back to his whores and fuck them. I could see it on his face. I could smell it on his nature. _

One day, a moon after Daenerys’s birth-- Naerys woke. She was weak and fragile, but she was alive and wished to see her brother and son. No one needed ask which brother it was she was speaking of. Aemon rushed to the bedward when he heard of the splendid news. A happy smile touched his lips. _ I can barely recall the last time I felt this joyful. _ His amethyst eyes of the old freehold sparkled as he gazed upon his sister, however weak and sickly she looked.  _ She is alive. _ That was all Aemon could ever have asked for.

“Aemon,” she greeted weakly as he had been the first to arrive.

“Naerys,” Aemon said as he walked over to her, embraced her in a fierce hug and kissed her pale cheek. He swore he saw the universe in her big, violet eyes. Naerys giggled and Aemon relished in the sound.  _ She was so young when she had Daeron, and she is barely four and thirty now. She is too young to be in such a grave danger. Too young to die.  _

“How long was I…?” Naerys asked and she almost looked frightened at what the answer would be.

“One moon, more or less. But you are returned to us now,” he smiled. 

“My children… Where are they? I wish to see  _ our  _ children,” her voice was so quiet, and she knew that if anyone heard those words, that they would have her head. A ruined smile touched Aemon’s fair face. 

“Daenerys is well. She is as beautiful and gentle as you were. She has your eyes,” he told his sister. Naerys smiled but then looked perplexed.

“The other one?” She asked and tears welled up in her eyes when Aemon did not reply.

“No,” she whispered softly to herself. Aemon reached out and laid his warm, big hand above her delicate one. 

“He is with his siblings now. Given to the fire. I named him Baelon,” Aemon told her gently.

“No, Aemon. No please,” she cried but it made no difference.  _ The gods take what they see as their due. It matters not to them, what we have to say about the matter.  _

“My sweet boy. Baelon was to be his name, how did you know?” she asked as fresh tears fell down her skin as pale as fresh winter snow.

“I know you better than I know myself. Baelon, for you wished him to be brave. One needs to be brave to have a father such as the one he would’ve had,” Aemon replied in a steady eyes as he gazed into her eyes of violet that spoke another truth. A truth she desperately wanted to believe.  _ So do I. _

“No. I wished to name him Baelon, so that he would be as brave and fierce as his father,” she said and her voice did not waver once, even as tears kept on flowing in a steady rhythm. It hurt him to see her pain. He wished to take it away from her, to mend her hurt. Yet he knew that he could never.  _ I only want to see her smiles. _

Fierce tears of love touched him and he felt his vision grow into a blur.

“I love you,” he said with such a sincerity that no one could ever claim to doubt it. 

“And I, you.” Then she laid her head back and returned her gaze to the ceiling, full of a numb grief, brought upon by the death of her son. 

“There was nothing you could have done, my gentle dragon.” It was the truth of it. Neither he nor Naerys could have stopped the boy from perishing.

“Maybe if I had eaten more,” she continued tearfully.

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he told her fiercely and she shook her head.

“But the fault lies with no one but me. If only I had been stronger,” she repeated scornfully, as if she was disgusted by her very own being. Aemon looked at her sharply. 

“He is dead, my love. Gone to ashes and dust. But you are here, you are flesh, you are blood and you are bone. So am I, so are Daenerys and Daeron. We are each other’s strengths. We must be.” Aemon’s words somehow reached his sister and she nodded.

“Now where is our daughter. I have waited too long to see her.”

Aemon would die not many years after. He swore an oath, and with his life he would pay. Naerys swore a different oath, and in a way, with her life she would pay, too.


	14. The vilest sins taste the sweetest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We follow Naerys through some important parts of her life. We take a look at her relationship with both her father, Aegon and Aemon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. This is a longer chapter and about Naerys, Aegon and Aemon. Angst, beware.  
> Also beware that this has not been edited, as I wrote it in the middle of the night-- after a brief surge of inspiration. 
> 
> This will probably be the last chapter you see from me, for at least two weeks. I am swamped with schoolwork at the moment and have to cram 2 semesters of german and math, into one week of studying-- suffice to say that I am not feeling top notch at the moment hahah. 
> 
> Anyways; see y'all in about two weeks (unless I write something before then-- which I really should not) and I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Don't forget to leave a kudos if you liked it and please leave a comment down below, as I love reading them and hearing your thoughts!

 

 

 

If you asked Naerys, she would not be able to pinpoint the moment that she truly knew, in her gentle heart, that she loved Aemon. Perhaps it was during the umpteenth time that he would crawl into her bed and cradle her in his arms, after Aegon made another snide and cruel remark about her size and appearance, when she had only been a young girl. Maybe it was the time he told her that he loved her, as her big, violet eyes met his dark, amethyst ones and she saw the utter sincerity they conveyed.

_No, it was after father told me I was to wed Aegon, and Aemon who had been such a dutiful son, brought out the dragon within to argue against it._

***

_“Please father, anyone. Anyone but him,” Naerys whispered out as silent tears trickled steadily down her cheeks._

_“You will do as you are told, Naerys.” Viserys was cold and stern, yet he had always harbored a soft side for his only daughter. It was nowhere to be found during this conversation._

_The door opened abruptly and Naerys turned around in shock. In walked Aemon, sweaty from his swordplay in the yard, but more lovely than any of the depictions of the Valyrian gods._

_“No!” He barked out at his father before continuing. “He hates her! He has hated her ever since our lady-mother birthed her! Are you foolish or simply blind?” Naerys winced at his sharp tone, and the room grew colder from the look on her father’s face._

_“You will have care of your tone when speaking to me, Aemon. I am your father and what I say, is what shall be done. I will hear no more of any bickering. The first son shall wed the first daughter and carry on the blood.” Their father’s stern voice echoed off of the cold walls in his solar, reminding all those present, of an ugly truth._

***

He had stayed with her after that, held her to his warming, hard body as she wept for the injustice that she was forced to endure. _He comforted me and called me his gentle dragon._ Though exhausted and sweaty from the yards, he refused to leave her until he was sure that she would be alright. Something bloomed inside Naerys that night, an undying, consuming love that smelled of doom. The way she would focus on Aemon’s warm breaths that tickled her skin pleasantly, or the way his strong body felt embracing her petite one. His lips that were dangerously close to her delicate neck, so near that her body yearned for the feel of them there.

Naerys caught herself wondering what it would have been like if she wed him instead, if it was him who would be bedding her instead of Aegon during the eve of their wedding. She had cursed herself for even thinking that dreadful, sinful thought. So, she had asked Aemon to pray with her, which he gladly obliged to. _He looked nervous, now that I recall. As if he too, had some hidden sin he wished deeply, to repent for. What are we men, if not sinful, wicked creatures?_

They both started to slowly grow apart after that fateful day. They would meet and speak, but it was not the same-- it was as if they were walking behind an invisible line that would crumble and fall if any of them ventured beyond it. Naerys would will the wicked thoughts from her body and purge her mind until it was full of nothing but prayers and holiness. She wished the ache she felt would run its course and take its leave from her mind and soul, but each time she saw his fair face, those eyes of amethysts and that tall, lean body; they would make their appearance yet again. _There is nothing in The Seven-Pointed-Star on this matter. It speaks of the love between a husband and a wife-- but Aemon is not my husband and Aegon is to be; yet I despise him._

They saw little and less of each other until the few weeks left leading up to her wedding to Aegon. Aemon would politely decline her invitations to sup with her, walk with her or meet with her and it wounded her deeply. _But I would not know what to tell him if he did accept._ She would lay awake in her bed, cursing herself with the images of them together, them being wed and having beautiful little children to call their own. It would leave her restless and melancholy, come the morrow. For she knew it would never be. _This is what the gods have in store for me, and I must be compliant. It is not for me to question._

***

However, one week before she was to wed, on a stormy night alight with lightning, she heard a quiet knock upon the door of her chambers, as she was staring out at the rain. Dressed in her nightgown, her hair free from its net and cowl-- free to linger down her back in shining ringlets, she opened the heavy oaken door. There he was. _Was he out in the storm? He looks chilled to his very bones._ Naerys stepped aside and quickly urged him in. It was the hour of the wolf, and no one was awake to see them.

“What is the matter, Aemon? You could catch the chill!” Naerys scolded him but he spoke not a word, only stared fixedly at her with his alluring eyes. His hair was sticking to his forehead in molten, silver-gold curls. She gently touched his shoulder but hurriedly removed it before she would do something she might regret. He sat down on her large bed with its red, silky sheets. Naerys had only women’s clothes in her chambers, none of which would fit Aemon, but made for an amusing thought; so she instead bid him to stand up as she gathered the sheets and began undoing the buttons of his doublet.

“What are you doing?” He finally spoke in his velvety tones and Naerys looked at him as if it was obvious.

“I am removing your wet clothing. We must warm you, otherwise you might fall sick.” Aemon nodded whilst Naerys felt her cheeks grow hot. _Surely he must see, my skin is too pale for it to not show at least a trace._ When she finished removing the linen shirt that was underneath, she held her breath. Aegon was handsome and strong, but Aemon was all that and more.

His lean, muscled chest was rising and falling in even breaths and was slightly wet to the touch because of his wet clothing. _He has such a lovely tone; a warm beige from the burning sun whilst he train shirtless in the yards._ Naerys was pale as death itself, and she had always been. He was absolutely breathtaking to gaze upon and all that was heard for long, eerie moments, were their even breaths as they only looked at each other. Then Aemon rose and his presence engulfed her delicate one. He stood at two inches taller than Aegon, and three over their father. He was more than a foot taller than the small Naerys.

“You’ve not visited me for long,” she told him, looking up at him with unyielding eyes of violet.

“Do you not love me?” she asked when he made no move to reply.

“It is because I love you that I have not.” His words were said in a silent whisper, broken and full of a melancholy that engulfed the very room. Naerys realised how much she had truly missed Aemon in that moment, so she moved to embrace him hard, and he remained still throughout it all. Tears began to well up behind her eyes. _Stop being so weak, that is why Aegon never loved you. You are so unyieldingly weak to the very core._

“I love you more than a brother should. That is why I have kept my distance. You are Aegon’s now,” he said, his voice full of pain and sorrow. _He could make even the Mother weep._ Naerys knew she had to say something, anything. She wished to comfort him in his pains, but what good would her false words be to him? He grazed a warm hand agains her lightly clad back and she damned herself for the way her treacherous body made it feel so right.

“We cannot. We are siblings, the faith does not condone it,” she responded weakly. Aemon took her chin in his hand and turned it upward him.

“The faith allowed it for Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. The faith allowed it for Rhaena and Aegon-- Alysanne and Jaehaerys, their children!” he began in a strong voice.

“As they will allow it for you and Aegon,” he finished and Naerys could not bring herself to even try to argue with that. _It is the truth, both he and I know it._

“Have you not felt it, too?” His voice faltered, he made himself vulnerable, for he knew just how much it would hurt for her to spurn him. Suddenly, her words were lead in her mouth and she could not make a response. _It is either lie, or tell the truth. The gods wish me to be just, truthful and kind-- but do they wish for me to tell the truth now?_

“Answer me, please,” his voice cracked and he inhaled sharply as he closed his eyes, bracing himself for what was to come. Naerys embraced him harder and he angled his neck downward, to place it in the crook of her neck.

“Of course I have felt it. Yet that is all it can ever be. A feeling.” The words sounded ashen on her tongue. _Wrong and horrible._ Aemon began to caress her silver-gold curls and she felt him smile against her skin. The action made a smile graze her plump lips, too.

“You smell of lavender.”

“I know. It is a new scent that the maids wished me to try during my bath,” she responded-- a mirth coloring her words.

“You would smell lovely to me, no matter what you smelled like.”

Then he softly began to kiss her neck and she grew rigid. Not knowing how to react, she simply did not. It was as if she was carved out of stone.

“Do you wish me to stop?” he whispered against her skin, making gooseprickles appear. Naerys dwelled on the words for several moments. _Truthfully? I do not. The gods tell me to live truthfully, so is that not what I should do?_ A small voice in the back of her mind told her that it was a sin, though-- she willed it away for once. _I shall have to deal with it when all is said and done, and there is nothing left for him and I to do about it._

“No. But the Gods will punish us,” she said in a weak attempt. _For me to at least tell the Mother that I tried to prevent it, when I pray for her forgiveness._

“The Gods will have to wait,” Aemon told her and continued his feverish kisses. Aemon picked her up in his strong arms, moved toward the bed and released her gently there. He removed her nightgown and she felt herself grow embarrassed of how he would perceive her. _I am not near as beautiful nor as enticing as all the other ladies._ It reminded her of the words that Aegon once spoke to Aemon, in front of her-- after their betrothal was announced.

 _“Women are for fucking and there is not much to fuck in Naerys,” Aegon said in a leer as he looked her body up and down. Aemon struck him in the nose for that_.

“You are so beautiful. The Maiden reincarnate,” Aemon told her and she wished to believe his words, believe her when she said that she wished to. _Yet I do not._ Then he touched her lips with his and her vile thoughts were but a mere memory. It was rushed, inexperienced and exciting, as Naerys had never kissed a man before. _It feels so right though,_ Naerys thought. He grasped her body and the noises both of them were making, would surely have made many a men blush.

“We must be quiet, someone may hear us,” Naerys whispered as Aemon turned and she was on top of him. He smiled a heartbreakingly lovely smile and gently touched her cheek.

“We shall do our best to be quiet, then.” Her hands were on his hard stomach and she felt a wicked satisfaction that this was the one thing that Aegon would not have of her. _He will not have my first kiss nor my maidenhead_. After all he had put them through, it felt only right that they should have some sort of secret rebuttal of their own.

Then she leaned down and firmly grasped his hair as their lips clashed. He turned so that he was on top of her, not long after, and looked at her with anxious eyes.

“Are you sure of this, Naerys? I do not wish to hurt you.” She had no words left to say it, so she simply nodded vigorously and spread her legs, entwining them around his hips.

It hurt at first but Aemon’s tender words of love and his expressions of pleasure made it all worth it. Soon enough, she joined him in his throes of passion-- gripping him more tightly than she ever thought her weak body would be able to.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she whispered into Aemon’s ear and he gasped, all the while making noises of acknowledgement.

“You are the reason I live,” he rushed out and Naerys felt consumed with love and happiness. Yet it was fleeting and she knew it. _Dawn will rise and wash away our sins with it._

After they both finished, they laid silently, recovering from their state of bliss. Then Aemon turned to her, his beautiful, sculpted face-- flushed with passion and his amethyst eyes sparkling. They bore a certain sadness in them, though. One she expected would never go away. _Perhaps our eyes mirror each other._

“I plan to join the kingsguard, soon.” He spoke and Naerys frowned.

“Why?” She asked and thought it a fair question.

“I shall not be able to wed and have children, when my heart belongs to you. I will not be able to leave you behind. I wish to be with you. Always. Even if it does not mean together.” His words struck a chord in her delicate heart and she felt it swell with both a sweet love and a cruel sadness.

“If that is what you truly wish, Aemon. I shan’t prevent you.” He nodded. Fear began bubbling in her chest.

“What if Aegon finds out? What if he will know that I am no maiden when he beds me?”

“He will not. I promise you. You have shown no reason to have lost your maidenhead prematurely, and so it shall continue. Rumors cannot be made of you and me, for we have not been engaging with each other for sometime now, and the court has noticed.” _He always has an explanation for everything._

“Will you pray with me? Later in the sept. For forgiveness? What we did was a sin, no matter how sweet if felt.” Aemon nodded.

“All the vilest sins taste the sweetest. Of course I shall join you,” he replied and Naerys smiled as she snuggled against his bare chest. The sun was beginning to show signs of rising in the east, so Aemon quickly dressed and she donned her nightgown, yet again. _I have not bled, so there will be no sheets to hide, at the least._ When he was ready, he bent down and captured her lips in a sweet, soft kiss and bid his goodbyes-- not before making sure that there was no other person awake, before he departed.

***

Aemon had quarreled with their brother during the feast of her wedding. Because Aegon was behaving as he was wont to; a wanton arse. _Some say he struck Aegon, yet I do not know the truth of it._ Naerys was still as a ghost during the entire feast and spoke not a word. She was not truly there, in her mind-- it was Aemon who was seated next to her. She grew increasingly nervous as the time for the bedding grew nearer. She was barely able to eat nor drink. _Not as if I ever was, though,_ she thought scornfully.

Aegon was busy whoring around with the serving-wenches when their father called for the bedding. _No, it cannot be. It is too soon._ Though a handsome man, Aegon was rotten to his very core, ruled by his carnal lusts and most of all; despised his siblings. Naerys was the one he despised the very most, so of course he thought she was sent by the gods to curse him, when their father told him of their betrothal.

Her dress was made of ivory silk, a cowl covered her eloquently braided hair. _Aemon told me I looked beautiful, Aegon said I looked like a modest, old crone with a dried up cunt._ Cheers and crude remarks greeted Princess Naerys’s ears-- even though she tried to block it from her hearing. She felt herself being picked up by the lords and had her dress, cowl and pearl necklace torn apart. A tear escaped her eyes as she felt one of the lords take hold of her bottom and squeeze it roughly.

“You do not have much, it is true-- but I am sure that if there is anyone who will make do, it is our Prince Aegon,” the old Hightower lord jested with a sneer and Naerys turned her gaze upward toward the ceiling. _This is the price I shall have to pay for my sins with Aemon._ She heard the ladies giggle at Aegon’s remarks. He laid proudly in their arms, not ashamed of anything; on the contrary, Prince Aegon delighted in the bedding ceremony. Unfortunately, the ones who suffer the most during this crude custom, is the bride herself.

She was dropped down onto the bed, desperately trying to shield her naked body-- when Aegon was, too. He smiled and spoke for mere moments until he bid them to take their leave.

“So that I can properly break my wife in, without you dirty pigs watching,” he jested and smiled. Naerys could still hear them screaming their vile and ungodly suggestions from behind the wooden door. Aegon fancied himself a cup of arbor gold and drank deeply has he crudely leered at her, looking at every inch of her pale body.

“It is true,” he said and took another sip of the golden liquid. Naerys covered as much as she could of herself, with her arms.

“You truly do not have much. Barely any teats to speak of, no arse-- but do not fret, my wife. We shall make do, won’t we? I have always enjoyed your hair and I suppose your cunt shan’t feel any different to the other ones, if I keep my eyes closed.” he finished and Naerys shook her head and mumbled something akin to _‘Please, no.’_

“What was that? I could not properly hear it.” _He enjoys this. He enjoys taunting me and making me feel weak. Nothing has changed since we were children._

“Please, no. Please do not.” She told him as she began weeping.

“I do not want to,” she continued in her broken voice. Aegon let out a booming laugh and walked closer to her. His purple eyes had a fire blazing in them.

“Do you see this?” he said and pointed to an ugly, red splotch on his cheekbone. Then he brushed some of her hair away from her face and leaned in, to whisper in her ear.

“This is what our dear brother gave me, after he told me that I should not whore around on the eve of my wedding.” Aegon stopped to bark out a short, abrupt and harsh laugh before continuing.

“I told him that I needed to get my fill before I bedded you, as you were more like to break your back or lay there like a dead horse. I do enjoy my women engaging, you know? So he struck me. I told him that I would pay him back for that, tenfold when I bedded you. So you will be a compliant little whore for me, will you not?” he finished and began kissing her neck and grabbing her body so harshly that she yelped and twitched in his embrace. It mattered not, he was far stronger than her. If she kept her eyes closed she could pretend that it was Aemon. _If I keep my eyes closed, then Aegon will feel just like you._ It was a weak lie, for Aemon would never have used Naerys the cruel and wicked way that Aegon did.

“Stop!” she begged but her pleas fell on deaf ear. He pushed her down on her knees roughly and answered in a growl.

“Shut up and stop moving!” she was sure his grip on her neck would leave a bruise, come the morrow. Then he reached down with his hand and invaded her with his finger. She was sobbing by that point and silently kept repeating the word ‘stop’ in a mantra. He removed his finger from her and shrugged.

“You are not even wet yet, but I am sure that will mend itself as we go.” Then he brutally forced himself inside of her, not any amount of screaming or pleading would make him stop. His hands grasped her body painfully, and no matter how much she tried; she could not pretend that it was Aemon. _He would never do it like this,_ she thought bitterly. Pained squeals and grunting was all that was heard in the chamber. A horrible thought was the only thing that gave Naerys some amount of comfort. _I hope that if I grow great with child, that it is Aemon’s and not Aegon’s._ Naerys feared what any of her babes would become if they were fathered by Aegon. _Let us hope that the Gods are merciful._

A loud groan and a warm feeling inside of her, told Naerys that Aegon had finally spilt his seed inside her. _He was in me for too long._ He pushed her down on her belly and she felt his seed trickle out of her, down her thighs. She looked down onto the white sheet and saw that she had bled, even though she was no maiden.

“Now that was not so bad, was it?” he asked cruelly and Naerys only turned around and wept silently in response. Pray to whatever gods you like, that you shall never experience the utter hopelessness that Naerys did that night. Few fates are more cruel. Before long, Aegon was snoring loudly and she was alone, with only the looming darkness to hold.

That very next day, Naerys tried to silently rise from their marital bed, but Aegon grabbed hold of her and dragged his body to him. She felt him in the small of her back and prayed to the gods, that he would not do what she thought.

“Now where are you scurrying off to? I thought we might consecrate this bed, once more,” he mumbled sleepily, into the crook of her neck and she shivered with disgust. Naerys whimpered in response to his suggestion.

Then he opened his purple eyes and gazed at her, as her body was bathed in the light of the sun. Dark bruises covered her and stood out crudely, in comparison to her pale, ivory skin. Her neck felt sore to the touch and pained her to move. She felt sore and had purple marks, the shape of Aegon’s grip atop her hips. Naerys almost thought she saw his eyes soften as he took in the full extent of what he had done to her, yet it was gone as quickly as it came. Instead he narrowed his eyes.

“No… perhaps not. Now leave before I change my mind.” Naerys did not have to be told twice. She dressed herself in a modest, blue gown and hid her silver-gold hair beneath a net-- to depart to the sept. She had told Aemon to wait there for her. She knew that she would wish to pray, the day after her bedding.

Her steps were painful and she hurt like she had never before. _Father knew that Aegon would do this, he must have._ Yet one cannot be too sure, for no one ever claimed that Viserys II ever knew his children, after his lady-wife Larra Rogare left him. The sept calmed her in a way that only the gods could. _I am broken and full of sin-- yet the gods accept me as I am._ Our Naerys was always always a little too hard on herself, than was necessary.

He was there. It looked as if Aemon had not slept since the previous night, and Naerys’s gentle heart ached for him.

“How are you?” she asked and Aemon turned to her with glassy eyes.

“I heard you,” he began in a broken voice. “I heard you scream and plead for him to stop, yet I did nothing,” he finished and it hurt her to hear him in such a pain.

“It is fine. I am here now. There was nothing that you could have done.”

“I could have killed him,” Aemon replied in a voice as hard as stone. _He is serious._ Naerys got down on her knees, next to him. They were in front of the statue depicting the Mother.

“And you would have paid for it with your life and left me all alone. I would not be able to go on without you here, my beloved,” she whispered. Aemon nodded. Then he saw the bruises that covered her neck, and her red, glassy eyes.

“What did he do to you?” Aemon sounded horrified. “Show me what he did to you,” he continued in a dark voice. It was still so very early, that they were alone in the sept. _Everyone else is like recovering from the wine they consumed during my horrid wedding._

“No, it was only because I fought him,” she lied but lying was never her forté. Aemon saw right through her, like a wall of glass.

“Show me,” he demanded. Who was she to deny him when he pleaded so brokenly? Naerys unbuttoned the top of her gown and Aemon breathed in sharply when he took notice of the dark bruises.

“It is worse on your lower half, is it not?” he asked and closed his eyes as if he was in pain. All Naerys did was nod and sob gently. Aemon helped her button the gown up again.

“I love you. All will be well, my sweet and gentle Naerys.” He held her in his arms until her sobbing stopped and they turned to pray. Naerys prayed to the Mother, that the child she would carry, would be that of her kind brother. Now she was tired, and would leave the rest up to the gods.

Approximately nine moons later, her first child, a son, Daeron was born. He was a sweet babe who would grow up to be a good man. Yet he did not take after Aegon, and neither Aemon in physique. He was closer to his proclaimed uncle in nature, than he was to the one proclaimed his father. No one would ever know the truth of his parentage; yet Daeron came to claim the crown and was forever known as _Daeron the Good._

  
  
  



	15. Oh, the ache of loneliness is a wound that only festers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viserra sneaks into Baelon's chambers, yet the history books did not tell you of all that passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter on Viserra and Baelon, with some Alyssa angst included.  
> I really should not be posting this, lol I have a major German test tomorrow and I have studied a total of 0 (0) %. 
> 
> Anyway, I was really hit with some major inspo to write this (thank you Rory Coughlin for the suggestion :)), I never think I intended to write a chapter on this but, suddenly I got all these ideas and this is the result.
> 
> A DISCLAIMER is that it is, literally the middle of the night, and that this has been edited 0%-- forgive me for any faults. 
> 
> ANOTHER IS that with this chapter, what I am aiming to show you, is how everything isn't black and white- that Baelon was in deep conflict with himself (I truly hope it shows), he was human, and thusly, flawed. I always thought there was more to the story than him simply sending her away. 
> 
> I guess what i'm trying to say is; I tried to make him raw and real, from how I imagined he would behave and react and I truly hope this chapter is to your taste; as I have been apprehensive about posting it.
> 
> Don't forget to give a Kudos if you enjoyed it and pleaseee Comment down below, what you thought, suggestions, anything! 
> 
> Until next time (probably in at least one or two weeks) 
> 
> :)

 

 

 

The spring prince was walking back to his chambers, after another tiresome day without the one he loved. He had visited his sons, Viserys and Daemon, whilst also having partaken in his father’s small council meetings. _These damn Dornish will never learn,_ he thought disgust. _They will never bow to the crown, however many of them we slay. However many of their cities and holdfasts we burn to ashes._ They gave him more of a headache than his four year old son, Daemon was giving him, with all the mischief he caused. Though Baelon found it difficult to harbor anything but fondness for his wild and unruly son. _He has Alyssa in him, and it brings me joy. Viserys... Viserys is a happy and charming boy that everyone can get along with._ His sons gave him a certain strength from within, at times that it was lacking.

Two years had passed since his beloved wife, Alyssa, perished whilst giving birth to their son, Aegon, who died not many moons after her. It was a difficult point in time for Baelon. He found himself all alone with a suffocating darkness that would not relieve its grip of him. Yet in the end, he persevered and found solace in the two strong sons that she had left him. Both Daemon and Viserys had more than a little of their mother, which made it feel as if she was still there, with him, guiding him through this. Still, any mention of his dead wife would put him in a foul, melancholy mood-- so the lords, his siblings and ladies did their best to avoid it.

Pressure to wed again was strong upon the second son of King Jaehaerys. Yet it was too soon, _it will always be too soon._ He did not think that he would ever remarry. _I have not even bedded a woman since the death of Alyssa._ His hand had become his favorite whore, and Baelon could not find it in him to care. _No one will ever compare to her, so what is the point of trying?_ Sure, he was a man of nine and twenty, young, handsome and strong-- which did not fall unnoticed by the young ladies at court-- who moistened their smallclothes at the thought of him putting potential dragonriders of Valyrian blood, into their wombs. _They want a beautiful babe with silver-gold hair and purple eyes-- they care not what happens after that,_ he thought and scoffed as he ascended the steps of stone, leading up to his chambers.

Sometimes Baelon wondered if they were even seen as regular mortals, by the smallfolk, lords and ladies. _No, we are more akin to gods, in their eyes. Which means that they think we are stronger than them._ It was a lie, Baelon knew. _Take away our fierce dragons, and we are but humans, like them. We lust just as much as them, we hurt just as much as them--we love just as well as them, we feel anger just as well as them, if not more._ Yet no one truly seemed to fully grasp that notion. _To be seen as gods, we need but be born a Targaryen._ Sometimes he wondered if that was a blessing or a curse. _It can be both,_ he pondered.

Nightfall had come and colored the sky a vivid dark blue, with tiny specks of light that was the stars. Though the castle was very much still in commotion, it had quieted down to that calm, that he loved so well. Baelon let out a tired groan, for he was sore, tired and weary. _Tomorrow will be a better day,_ he promised himself. He made it to right outside his door, and with steady hands, clasped the golden handle and turned it-- to enter the chambers.

It was dark, and none of the servants had been there to light a hearth. A lone candle was flickering by the desk. _It is fine, mayhaps some trouble occurred and they simply forgot. I shan’t torture them for it, I am not cruel_ _like Saera was._ With a sigh, the spring prince began unlacing his black tunic. Not being able to find it in him to care, he threw it to the floor, ran a hand through his wavy, silvery hair and moved to climb into bed.

As he laid down underneath the covers and moved to wrap an arm around the pillow that Alyssa used to sleep atop, the tips of his fingers were met with soft, naked skin and an unsettlingly beautiful giggle. Baelon immediately retreated away from the bed, to grab the candle-- and when he did, he moved it to see who had been in the bed, beside him.

“Viserra?” he asked confusedly, for there laid his younger sister, as naked as her nameday. She giggled and rose from the bed. Baelon would be untruthful, if he said that she was not beautiful. Slim of waist, with a womanly shape, along with the deep, purple eyes, her silver-gold hair and eerie charm-- she had been known to tempt many a men. The history books will tell you that Baelon simply sent his alluring sister away. It is not a direct lie, but the truth… is perhaps a bit more complicated.

Baelon would be lying if he said that the sight did not make him hard. She was a woman, naked and willing, in his bed. It was as if some wicked fantasy. _My heart belongs to Alyssa._ His cock, apparently did not. Viserra pushed some stray curls from her flushed face and looked at him with a sly smile.

“Baelon,” she greeted and threw herself in his arms, to embrace him-- all the while pressing herself against his naked chest. Baelon pushed her away.

“What are you doing, Viserra?” he asked, as shock claimed his senses. She pouted with those red, glistening lips of hers and reached a hand out to his tan chest, and dragged her dainty hand down, slowly and tracing all the muscles. He breathed in hard and roughly grabbed her hand.

“I asked you a question.” She giggled and he caught the scent of Dornish red. _She is drunk,_ he noted. Then she pushed him backward, down on the bed and straddled him. He grew rigid from the shock.

“I do not want to wed that fat, old man, Baelon,” she whined in his ear as she temptingly ran a hand down his bare back.

“Lord Manderly is a good man, he will treat you well, Viserra.” Baelon’s voice was strained and abrupt. _It is as if I have forgotten to think. It has been so long._

“How many wives has he outlived now? I stopped counting after two,” she began in a soft, bored voice. “I want a man, not some fat lordling who is almost thrice my age. I am a princess, not some broodmare for mother to give away as she pleases!” her sharp voice echoed and spoke a truth that Baelon did not quite want to admit to himself. _Mother has made good matches, but also unwise ones. This has not been her cleverest notion, no._

Baelon was well aware that Viserra was sly, vain and conceited-- she was a princess of the blood, and one of the most beautiful out of all, too. _This behavior comes natural to her. It is all she knows. They have been feeding her vanity and made it a raging, consuming fire._

“She is the queen and your mother. You shall do as you are bid,” Baelon replied and he swore that he could hear her pout.

“I do not want him on top of me, stinking of wine as he empties himself inside of me, after a few short groans and strokes. Neither do I want his half-breed children, I am Valyrian, the line must be kept pure and not defiled,” she whispered scornfully, and then leaned even closer to his ear. “We all heard of what you did to Alyssa, I heard her screams and pleas at night. You were a very dutiful husband. I always did wonder what it was you did, that could make her scream so loud-- somehow my hands could not quite recreate it, ” she continued slyly and almost moaned the words, as she wrapped her long legs around his waist. Baelon remained as still as a weirwood tree. _All I wanted was to sleep, was that so much to beg for?_ He asked the gods in a silent prayer.

“You need to stop this mummery, Viserra. You will wed Lord Manderly and he shall be your husband.” His voice was so strained and the very situation he was in, brought a creeping shame in that covered his very own being. _I am shaming Alyssa by even allowing this._

“You can be mine. You can make me a woman, for true,” she breathed as she rubbed against him, in her drunken stupor. He was utterly horrified by how good it felt. _No, this is wrong, so horribly wrong!_

“No!” Baelon said as he moved to stand up, but Viserra pushed him down onto the bed again. He felt Alyssa’s pillow by the top of his head. _I do not wish to hurt her, but gods forbid it if she does not cease her actions, soon._

“Do not deny it, Baelon. We could be good for each other, “ Viserra purred as a sweet smile graced her lips, and her deep, purple eyes looked black in the low lighting.

“Viserra, he will treat you like a queen. Believe it. You will learn to love him,” Baelon promised desperately but Viserra shook her head.

“Like Aemon loves Jocelyn? Like Florian loved Jonquil? Like mother loves father? Do not be absurd, Baelon. Love will never be found _there_ ,” she spit out the words as if they were ash on her tongue. He did not know how much more he would be able to take from her, before he turned her on her knees and fucked her thoroughly, so hard and fast that she would most like weep with both pain and pleasure. _No, dead or alive, Alyssa is still my wife. I shall remain faithful to her,_ he promised himself.

“But you. I already love you. It matters not if you are older,” she said with such sincerity, that he almost believed it. Then she began kissing his neck and chest, soft, crazed and sweet. Baelon pushed her away abruptly, but she reached down into his breeches and grabbed his cock. When she spoke, she sneered the words.

“You can say no all you want, _that_ is all the proof I need.” He felt her pale, white hand squeeze so hard, that his patience ran out and was replaced with anger. He pushed her down onto the bed and she relished in it, thinking this was when he would fuck her and break all chances of her marrying Lord Manderly. Alas, no, for our Viserra.

“A cock will rise to even the most pox-scarred of whores. Do not think you are so special, Viserra. I shan’t have a part in breaking your betrothal, neither would I ever wed someone as vain and sly as you. Beauty is not everything, it is time you learned,” he sneered at her and she grew terrifying in the candlelight.

“So you could fuck skinny Alyssa--with the crooked nose, long face and mismatched eyes, but when it is someone as beautiful as I, you do not? Men,” she spit out with venom lacing each and every one of her words.

“I loved Alyssa from the moment she was birthed. We were inseparable and she will remain the most beautiful woman to me, for as long as I draw breath. Do not dare speak ill of her. You are less than half of the woman that she was.”

After that, Viserra turned to pleading.

“Please, Baelon. I have a woman’s form now, can’t you see?” She took hold of Baelon’s hands and put them on her breasts, with a surprisingly strong grip, for someone so delicate. He removed them as if scalded, but Viserra did not stop there. Oh, our Viserra would never be defeated without a battle. She grabbed his large hands, yet again, and ran them all over her body-- desperate tears streaming down her face. Baelon looked away.

“I could bear you more children--daughters to wed Viserys and Daemon,” she hysterically cried and put one of his hands on the neat, golden curls below.

“Stop it!” he said with such an anger, that she cowered in the very sight of it.

“Your false tears will not change your destiny,” he told her icily, but not unkindly and then grabbed her arm and forced her to rise. She had moved on to silent tears and a petulant look, by now. _I am tired, so tired of all of this!_ Baelon knew his sister well enough to know that the tears, were for herself, as they would always be. _She does not have it in her, to care for anyone but herself._

“Now get dressed, I am done being considerate to you. We will be going to mother and father’s chambers. Let them decide what is to be done of you,” he continued as he picked up his black tunic and donned it, yet again. _Oh gods, can this day get any more horrid?_

Viserra took her sweet time getting dressed, and was more wont to fumble with the laces of her nightgown, than the actual action of tying them. Baelon grew tired of waiting, for what felt like moons, so he moved to help his sister tie the laces at the back of her gown. Viserra stilled at the contact, but made no move to prohibit it. He slowly tied the laces, letting his slender fingers graze the warm skin on her back. He willed himself to forget, just how similar it felt to Alyssa’s. But also how much he wanted to continue.

“Oh, Viserra. You should not have done this,” he told her with several sad shakes of his head.

When he was done, he took several steps back and offered her his arm, which she took hold of, gently.

“Please, Baelon. Do not make them do this to me,” she begged but her words were wind in Baelon’s ears. When he looked at her, he saw the babe that he held in his arms, all those years ago. The one who would smile each time he picked her up and cradled her to his chest. _Not this strange creature she has become._ All of the fondness left in his heart for her, was trapped in those memories. He could neither love nor hate her. _I suppose all I can do is accept her as the gods made her._

“You should count yourself fortunate if they do not send you to the silent sisters-- As they did Saera.”

“Saera bedded half the court, I am not so foolish!” she cried

“And what exactly was it that you planned on achieving, waiting naked in my bed, for my arrival?” Baelon asked scornfully

“Do not jest yourself. You are no better than her,” he continued. Viserra looked hurt, but only for an instant, before she donned her mask to continue her facade.

“You are supposed to be my brother,” she whispered to herself. “I took you for a man-- it seems I was mistaken,” she continued in a tearful voice.

“It is because I am your brother, that I am not letting the entire court know of your mummer’s farce. This shall stay between us and our parents, mayhaps Septon Barth, if father chooses to tell him,” Baelon said in an even voice.

“It is because I am a man, that I will not stick my cock in you. I have more honor than your callow, weak and craven boys,” he promised. Then he opened the door, and together, they made their way to the chambers of Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys.

Viserra gripped his arm tightly when they were outside the chambers, Baelon simply looked at her and then knocked. The guards were gazing at them wearily. _It is an odd time for a visit, indeed. We are the most unlikely of visitors, as well._ The great wooden door was opened by his father, King Jaehaerys-- who looked most surprised and perplexed to the most unlikely of his children, together, outside his chambers,

“Baelon, Viserra-- to what do we owe this pleasure?” his father asked in his steady, comforting voice and Baelon faltered for a second. What do I tell him? _I would not know where to begin._

“Mayhaps we can discuss this more privily.” Baelon eyed the guards and  King Jaehaerys nodded.

“Of course.” His father then moved aside, to allow Baelon and Viserra to enter. He looked around and saw his mother, by one of the tables, with a book in front of her and a candle to provide better light. It astounded Baelon, that at the age of fifty, his mother was still as beautiful and kind-hearted as she had been at forty, and all those years before.

“Baelon, Viserra. My sweet children,” his mother said as she stood up, to embrace them both. Baelon rejoiced in the comfort of his mother’s delicate embrace, for it had always succeeded in calming him. Viserra stood as frigid as a rock, and Queen Alysanne noted that something was amiss.

“Is something the matter, my children?” she asked with kind, blue eyes and Baelon nodded. Viserra looked at him with purple eyes that were pleading, for him not to tell. _I must do what I must._

“Shall you tell them, or I?” Baelon asked his sister, as his parents frowned in confusion. Viserra began to hysterically weep and held on to their mother, as she sank down to the floors.

“I am sorry, i’m so sorry but I do not want to wed him!” she screamed.

“Quiet,” Baelon snapped and Viserra did quiet down, a little. _She is young and foolish, but sometimes, not even that, is an excuse._

“What happened?” King Jaehaerys sharply asked his son.

“I returned to my chambers this eve, and climbed underneath the covers-- simply to find her, drunk and naked in my bed. She begged me to help her escape her betrothal to Lord Manderly, to bed and wed her.” Neither King Jaehaerys nor Queen Alysanne spoke, for very long moments. _I will not give them the details, and neither do I suspect that Viserra will._

“And did you?” His father asked him with a queer look. _Does he think I fucked her?_

“No! Of course I did not, what do you think of me?” Baelon snapped and his father looked abashed.

“I am sorry, but as king, I needed to ask.” His father’s reply was distant… _Losing Saera has made him weary of daughters and the trouble they might bring._

“Why?” Alysanne asked her daughter, in a distraught voice that did not become her. She works hard on these matches. _She works hard for her children and we repay her by offering even more grief._

“I do not want to wed that fat, old man! He is almost thrice my age, mother!” Viserra screeched out. “I am not some broodmare,” she continued and Alysanne’s gaze softened for her young daughter.

“Oh, my sweet. You should have brought your concerns to me, and I would have eased them. He is a kind, good man that treated me most wondrously, as he will you,” Alysanne said as she stroked her daughter’s glistening, silver-gold locks.

“You are not hearing me, mother. I do not care if he is kind, I don’t want him! I want Baelon,” she begged. _Mother knows exactly why she wants me, which is why she would not even consider that Viserra be my wife._

“You want Baelon for ambition, not love, my sweet. At White Harbor you will be waited upon like a queen, but you shan’t ever become one. That is for Jocelyn.” His mother’s words rang true, and of course, they were not to Viserra’s taste.

“Please mother, I am too beautiful to be ruined by that old man. I will not birth him his half-breeds, that would not even rule White Harbor. Their blood would be superior to their mongrel siblings-- yet cast down in their favor,” Viserra spit out in pure disgust. That was the only time that Baelon ever thought, his mother would strike one of her children. Jaehaerys spoke up before Alysanne even could.

“I do not know,” his father began in a voice as cold as the northern winds. “How the gods could bless you with such a beauty, yet make you so greedy and vain. You will wed, and you will wed Lord Manderly. You will birth him his children, and have your beauty be ruined by it. You will see your handsome children, be cast aside for his older ones. No storm will be able to match your rage, I promise you that. But you will never, never! Wed Baelon. You will make due with your situation, no matter how much you may resent it.” King Jaehaerys’s words had become a growl by the end, yet they hurt Viserra in a way that Baelon’s could never. _He was always better with roads, than he was with his troublesome daughters._ They were cruel, even to Baelon’s taste. _She is but a girl of fifteen, young and naive. Father needn’t have been so harsh._

“No word shall be spoken of this, to anyone! Do you hear me,Viserra? If Lord Manderly hears even a whisper of this, I shall have you sent to the silent sisters, for the rest of your life,” Jaehaerys promised and Viserra nodded fervently. His mother put a comforting hand on King Jaehaerys’s shoulders and he calmed, under the guise of his beloved queen.

“It is either wed him, or be a silent sister. Choose wisely, my girl,” Alysanne told her daughter gently and Viserra threw herself into her mother’s arms, whilst weeping.

“Please,” she whispered, but their mother knew better than to fall for her daughter’s tricks. _Saera taught her a vital lesson._

“Now it is time for both of you to retire to bed, my sweet son, you look weary and in need of a good slumber.” Alysanne gently stroked her son’s back and for some reason, the urge to weep became overbearing for our strong, spring prince. Yet he stuffed it down, deep and dark and underneath _. I may have wept if it was only mother here, but father and Viserra are present. I must remain strong in their eyes._ With his mother, came an understanding that he would never share with his father or siblings, save for Aemon. Queen Alysanne would never look upon her son and think him weak for weeping or behaving as a mere mortal who was exhausted, hurting and tired to the very bones. It was a sort of tired, that only the shackles of death could free him from.

“I bid you a pleasant eve, father,” Baelon said after he had embraced his mother fiercely. King Jaehaerys embraced his son, too and then as they broke their embrace, Baelon looked to Viserra. She was standing in the corner, silent as a mouse, which was very unlike her.  He walked toward her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Viserra. May the Mother guide you to the righteous way,” he said, even though he had never put much stock in the gods. He truly wished the best for his lost sister.

The walk back to his chambers, through the halls of stone, felt weary to the prince. He was utterly drained, yet a shift in his body had been made and he wished so hard for it to be undone. _I barely craved women after Alyssa’s death, and now as soon as one falls into my bed, naked and wanton; I start to, again? There is something truly wretched about this_ . He knew that Alyssa would not have wanted him this melancholy and harsh, after her death. She would have wanted him to love again, but Baelon knew that he would never. _Love? No. Wed? No. Fuck? perhaps._

Now however, the prince was content by the use of his hand and a fleeting thought of his wife, when she was alive and well, and more lovely than the sun setting in the west. In the future… Baelon did not know what the future would bring, but he knew that he would never publicly, or privately shame the memory of his wife. He would be discreet with his carnal affections, have whores disguised as servants be brought to him. _I would pay them well enough to keep their mouths shut, too._ The spring prince thought it a fair compromise. After all, he was but a man. _We are all slaves to our carnal lusts in one way or another._

As he entered his chambers he removed, then cast his clothes down onto the floors and threw himself on the bed with a vigor, the candle had since long, gone out. The darkness felt comforting in a way that the light could never. A consuming, wretched and empty feeling settled in his gut.

“I miss you,” he whispered softly into the cold air of his chambers.

“I miss your laugh and your bawdy remarks. The way your eyes softened when you said my name, or our sons’. I miss the way everything felt so right, how we were completely and utterly made for each other.” His words garnered no response but the howling of the wind. _Oh, my dear. It has been a very difficult two years._

Baelon wanted a river to match his sadness--bitter cold, flowing and consuming. _It was so wicked that she was taken from me before I could even… Before we could even…_ The thoughts were painful. Icy to the touch and corrosive, in the way they burned their way into his very mind.

“And I miss the way that I was saved, your most loving smiles.” Tears ran down his cheeks, but it mattered not. _Nothing but the empty darkness will bear testament to my weakness. She made me strong, stronger than everyone already claimed I was_.

“Even as you laid there, dying in your bed of crimson blood-- you did not weep. You comforted me as I laid crying like a newborn babe in your arms. You told me I would be alright, and you did not lie. Why did they have to take you so soon?” He did not understand and would never. _They say it was the will of the gods, but what deities would be so cruel? So awful and horrid?_

“I hope you are at peace. That is the least these gods could do for you. I hope you are somewhere, in a place unknown-- watching our children grow in harmony. I would have joined you sooner, if it was not for the sons you gave me. They have provided me with a purpose, I would otherwise have lacked.” The whispering of the wind grew louder, and Baelon gripped Alyssa’s pillow as a dying man would his last breaths of life.

“I will join you. I simply do not know when.”

“Goodnight, Alyssa,” he said the words in a prayer and fell into a slumber where she was still with him. She was never dead in his dreams. What is dead may never die, the Greyjoys are fond of boasting--and in Baelon’s memory; Alyssa would always remain the strong, bawdy and fierce young woman that she had been.

The time after that, Baelon continued to dedicate toward his sons, and honoring the memory of his beloved wife, with the crooked nose and mismatched eyes. He avoided Viserra as best he could, and rarely ever saw her. She had resumed her normal behavior, as he knew that she would. Yet he had hoped that marriage would settle her. She never had the time to wed, for the night before she was set to sail to White Harbor-- she wanted one last night of mirth. With a drunk Viserra atop, her palfrey collided with that of her friend’s mare, during a drunken race back to the Red Keep. His sister died at the tender age of six and ten, a year after the incident with Baelon. Her death crushed their mother and made Baelon think that maybe, he should not have avoided her, so. Baelon would continue living until the age of four and forty, when he too, passed and rejoined Alyssa. In whatever came next.


	16. Happiness is a waning hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few particular days in the lives of Prince Viserys II Targaryen and Lady Larra Rogare of Lys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's been a while. 
> 
> I'm done with the majority of the things I have to do for school now, so here's a chapter I wrote, literally, in the middle of the night (as I am wont to lol) It is about Viserys and his wife Larra.
> 
> A note here is that I do spell Lysene and Lyseni differently and it's not because I forget; but because I call nationality ''Lyseni" and things like items and artefacts "Lysene" Idek why lol. Just a note.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: What i'm trying to show you with this chapter, is Larra's ever growing, severe depression. She was not happy, no matter how hard she tried. Sometimes things don't work out, but there is no doubt in my mind that leaving was very difficult for her, but to be free-- she needed to leave. 
> 
> A tragic and interesting character, she is. Both of them are. 
> 
> I hope I did them justice. 
> 
> (BTW I can't write songs for shit so sorry in advance)
> 
> Please give a kudos if you liked it and leave a comment down below, regarding what you thought or what you'd like me to do next! I love commentsssss.
> 
> Until next time,

 

 

 

“I love you,” Viserys told his wife as he stroked her silver-gold hair and watched it flow like a metallic river betwixt his fingers. Larra did not respond, she laid so still, with her back turned opposite him-- so silent that he was sure that she had fallen asleep.  _ She is tired, she insists on spending all her days with Aegon and Aemon.  _ Yet that was not the full truth of it, and Viserys knew it, even though he had troubles admitting it--for most often, the truth tastes more bitter and foul than the lies that are told so sweetly.. 

Larra was with her children, for they were the only company she was like to find herself in during the days in King’s Landing. She did not belong there, and the people knew it. She knew it. So, Larra did not force her company upon the lords and ladies of Westeros, but neither would she tear herself asunder, to please them. She was Lyseni, Valyrian to her very core. If the wretched people of the west would not embrace her, why should she do the same for them or their customs that she found as strange, as they did hers?

Though seven years younger than her, Viserys knew very well of her troubles, she did not have to speak them out loud, to prove their existence. He knew and yet…  _ I have not done anything about it, that merits any change _ . He bore witness to the changes in her behavior, how she would recluse herself, spend time only with their children and an overwhelming sheet of melancholy covered her being. Viserys found it unbecoming. _ She is too young and beautiful, to be in such a pain. _

She birthed their second child, Aemon, not quite two years past and now she was with child again. The maesters suspected that she was three or four moons along, yet Larra remained slim and willowy. The only hint of the growing babe in her belly, was the small movements they would bear witness to, and the small bump atop her belly. Viserys had reached his ten and seventh nameday weeks past, and a tourney had been held in his celebration. Larra attended,  _ but only long enough to wish me a happy nameday, then she feigned sickness and I pretended to believe her.  _ Viserys heard the whispers of the scornful ladies at court, yet he did not bother to give thought to their gossip. _ Larra is my wife and I love her deeply, no matter what these dried up crones say.  _ He had thought it a dull event, anyway.

The truth of the matter was that, he was not very present.  _ I try to be there for her. Yet Aegon demands my attention as well, and we lost so much time when he thought me dead.I never meant to leave you here without anyone to anchor you to the shore. _ His attention was demanded everywhere, and he found it hard to delegate it properly.  _ At least Larra has the children, Aegon has only his foul, tragic thoughts.  _ His wife had her gods, too. But even that barely brought her any semblance of comfort-- as they were undermined at every chance, by the people of court.

His heart burst and bled for his wife, it truly did. All he ever wanted was her love, and even that had been hard to gain. A beautiful woman, she had expected to be wed to a strong, Lyseni nobleman, not a prince everyone thought to have been dead-- lost at sea. Instead, she received a boy of two and ten, whom she had to wed and bed. Suffice to say that she was not fond of it, but as he grew older, her affections for him did, too. He remembered the moment she had allowed a declaration of love escape her lips of scarlet. T’was the year after Aemon’s birth, when he had found her weeping in their chambers, and she had thought him to be with his brother.

 

* * *

Aegon had allowed Viserys to leave the council meeting earlier than usual, on the grounds of him having done enough for the day. Glad to have time to spend with his family, Viserys politely thanked his brother and resumed to depart to his chambers. The walk throughout the halls that bore so many haunting, loving and strange memories-- passed quickly enough, and soon he was outside the chambers that he shared with his wife.

Quietly, so that he would not wake Larra if she was with their children or sleeping-- Viserys opened the heavy door, surprised that it did not creak from the brief contact. A strange sound greeted him, it was soft, guttural and if pain would have been personified; then he was sure that would have been it. It unnerved the prince, for it reminded him of his mother’s wails, after they had lost his older brothers.  _ Oh, how it seems like such a long time ago. It seems a different life, entirely. _

Viséa walked slowly up to Viserys and curled herself around his legs in affection. Larra had named the cat, he never thought to ask what it meant.  _ She is such a clever woman, if anyone bothers to look and see, that which is underneath. _ Even that, Viserys had been neglecting of late. He ran his fingers through Viséa’s soft, glistening tufts of black fur and the cat purred in delight. The sound grew louder, so he decided to follow it. Softly, his feet bore him into their bedchamber, where his wife was holding Viséa’s litter and petting them softly, as she wept bitter tears of agony. His wife turned around immediately, as she heard the creaks of the floor.

Wiping her beautiful lavender eyes with the back of her hand, she looked up at her husband with a false smile that spoke of pain, What a beautiful smile it was, yet somehow so ruined.

“Husband,” she greeted in high-Valyrian. She had not bothered to learn the common tongue, and would not let the Westerosi change the core of her being. If they would not learn Lysene, why should she learn their language? 

“Larra,” Viserys said and frowned. “Why are you weeping?” he asked. His wife looked down onto one of the kittens, and touched its white fur, with her pale, slender hands. 

“I was thinking of naming it Aemma. Do you like it?” she asked, disregarding his question entirely.  _ Aemma, after my mother’s mother. Who died before her time. _ A soft smile touched Viserys’s lips--broken and fragile beyond words, as he thought of his mother, father and brothers, in what seemed like centuries ago.  _ There is nothing left to say of it, now _ . He moved to join her atop the soft furs of their bed.

“I think it beautiful,” he told her softly. Realisation of what the name had brought back, struck her, and Larra quickly began apologising.

“I am sorry, I did not mean-” Viserys grabbed a hold of her soft arms, gently.

“It was of no offense. You could never do or say anything to hurt me,” he promised and she shook her head.

“That is called the naivety of the young and foolish, Viserys. I could do  _ everything  _ to hurt you,” she began seriously, in her gentle voice that he loved so much. “The fiercer you love, the more it hurts when they betray you,” she finished and it made Viserys realise just how much the downfall of her family, must have wounded her.  _ Her brothers are dead, her father is dead. Everyone is dead.  _ In a sense, she had lost almost more than Viserys had.  _ At least I have Aegon, who does she have when I am not here, when our children are not here? _ He gently caressed her flushed cheek and she leaned into his touch and closed those beautiful eyes of hers. A moment of weakness? A moment of grief? An act of raw humanity? Viserys thought it a mix of all three.

“I know,” Viserys began in a tender voice. “That this was not the life you chose. I was not the husband you chose, and I am fully aware. I do not hold it against you. You are and were a beautiful woman, who expected to wed a strong and handsome man. I am not considered uncomely, but Aegon is the handsomer out of us two. Yet he has such a melancholy mood, whereas I am the charming one, do you not think?” Viserys threw a light-hearted jest toward the end and a lovely giggle escaped the lips of his wife.

“That could be argued,” she allowed with a delicate smile as her eyes remained closed. She leaned closer into his touch, until she was leaning against his shoulder, with his arms around her. Aemma slept peacefully in Larra’s sweet embrace.

“I know King’s Landing is not what you had imagined… but we must make due with the cards we are dealt, must we not?” he asked and his voice took on the hopeless melancholy notes of his brother. 

Larra opened her lavender eyes and he saw that they were brimming with unshed tears.

“I tried,” she told him. “I tried and they scorned me,” she whispered. “I knew not of my family’s affairs. Yet my first crime was being Lyseni, was it not?” bitterness laced her words.

“They are but sheep and we are dragons. You should not let their jealousy taint who you are.” He remained calm as he spoke, but sometimes he wished to bring fire and blood to those who wronged him or his family. This was one of those times.  _ She tries to remain so strong, until it tears at her very being, and the walls of misery trap her, never to let her escape the ruins. _

“They think me a heartless witch. A Lyseni whore, only good for taking your cock and popping out my whelps. That is what they call me. That is what they call our children. The regents wanted a noblewoman of pure Westerosi blood, and instead they received a Lyseni whore. They did not think it a good bargain,” she said with a mirthless laugh, as tears dripped down her cheeks in calm, steady waves. Fire began coursing in his blood.

“Fuck them. Fuck what they think. Queen Alicent was a noblewoman of Westerosi blood, and look at her. Look at what she did, all the pain and misery she caused because of her ambition,” Viserys spit out in anger. “You are good, you have a kind heart, without the vanity that comes with your titles. I will have the tongue of the next lord or lady, who disrespects you, so,” her husband promised and Larra moved to stroke his arm in affection, Aemma jumped down to join her mother.

“They blame me for everything that falls amiss. When a babe goes missing, it is because of my worship of Saagael. When they see a cat departing my chamber, they do not think it is there because of comfort; but to spy for me. Then because I worship the male god Yndros, they think I transform into a man; to visit the street of silk,” she wept silently.

“I was never good enough. They would have never given me a chance. It was all doomed from the start,” she continued scornfully. 

“I am sorry that you are in such pain. I wish deeply to relieve you from it, yet I know not how,” Viserys said as his words took on the note of grief.

“I miss Lys. I was loved there,” she told him and he nodded.

“I know, my love. I know.” 

After that, he gently placed her underneath the covers and moved to leave, but she took hold of his arms and gazed at him with pleading, lavender eyes.

“Stay. Please.” Viserys nodded and removed is tunic, to join her. He wrapped his arm around her slim waist and began singing a song that his mother had sung to him-- in a time long forgotten. 

_ “Oh I once loved a lord, in his castle of stone, _

_ And he told me that it could all be mine, with a kiss.  _

_ But his promises were wind, and off they were blown. _

_ I had given him my all, for a second of bliss.  _

_ Little did I know, how it would leave me, _

_ An eternity of scorn.  _

_ My girl she was born, as sweet as a pea, _

_ But as cold as the shivering sea. _

_ Then all that was left, was to mourn.  _

_ For without a breath, she was born.  _

_ So now I sing my song of a life untold. _

_ In hopes that it makes yours, feel less cold.”  _

Deep, even breathing was all that was heard from Larra’s side for a long time after that. The song had brought back memories of a childhood lost, and he found the hole in his heart growing ever larger. He missed his mother and he missed his father.  _ No matter how many shall spit upon my mother and father’s name. No matter how many call them monsters; I shall know in my heart, that they were not. _

Slowly, Viserys began to fall into the lulling arms of sleep, and it was the sweetest feeling of calm. Dazed and half-asleep, he heard her velvety tones speak.

“I love you.” And believe her, when she said that it frightened her, the way nothing else did. 

* * *

However, as time passed, his wife grew ever more miserable. He could see it in her eyes, smell it on her skin, feel it in her heart. Everyone thought her so horribly wicked and cruel, they detested her beauty, were frightened of her faith and concocted savage rumors of how the priests of her faith would engage in obscene ceremonies and blood sacrifices-- when she had once asked to have her own gods bless their son, Aegon.  _ She never asked again. _

Now, Larra was a shell of the woman she had once been.  _ She used to be so happy, carefree and willful. My wife was the envy of every other noblewoman in Lys, with her fierce nature. They tamed her here, they broke her down until only fragments remained and I shall never forgive this wretched court for doing so. _ He shook his head and moved closer to her, he wished to feel the warmth of her, to remind himself that she was truly there and would not leave him.

“We will be happy one day, I promise you that. Trust me, darling,” he gently whispered into the crook of her neck. Then he laid one arm atop her, and he swore that he felt his babe gently kick. 

The next days were difficult for both him and Larra. Aemon and Aegon had caught a chill, so Larra was prohibited from being in their presence, as she could fall ill too, and thus the babe in her belly could suffer. Viserys had courtly duties along with ones delegated by his brother, so he was not able to spend many moments with her. She had her Lyseni guards and interpreters, but it was not the same, and he knew. When his day was done, he quickly hurried back to their chambers, in hopes of finding Larra awake. _ Perhaps we can play one of those Lysene games that she loves so well. _

He was met with one of the maids departing their chamber and quickly addressed her.

“My wife?” he asked as the maid curtsied

“Taking a bath m’prince, dismissed all o’us. Doesn’t wish to be disturbed.” Viserys nodded and entered their chambers. Viséa and her new litter were curled up on the bed, sleeping gently. The image made Viserys smile. 

He walked into the bathing room and found his wife gently resting in the scalding water.  _ Our blood runs hotter than that of regular men, and so does hers. It is a testament of our heritage. _

“My love,” he greeted as he kissed her cheek, gently. Larra smiled at the action. 

“Viserys. I missed you so,” she responded softly as her lavender eyes opened and took him in. 

“And I, you,” he told her with a sincere desperation. 

Viserys removed his doublet and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. The room was feverishly humid and made beads of sweat form on his brow and arms. Larra stroked his arm with one, wet hand.

“So muscular,” she said good-naturedly and Viserys mock-frowned. 

“You ruined my tunic,” he said and pouted like Aemon was wont to, when their other son demanded their attention. Larra gazed at him with her fine features, a gentle smirk began forming on her glistening, pink lips. She leaned forward, slowly.

“Then perhaps you should remove it,” she said seductively and Viserys’s breath caught in his throat. As he closed his eyes and was about to kiss her, he felt water drenching him and an angelic laugh of mirth escaping the lips of his wife.

“Oh, you did not,” he said in shock, but his wife only laughed. It brought him joy, however.  _ As she does not enjoy herself like this very often, anymore.  _

Viserys removed his breeches and tunic quickly, and moved to enter the tub, but Larra reached out one long, slender leg, and stopped him by putting her dainty foot on his chest. She looked like a true goddess, and as he saw the bump that adorned her belly, he was filled with an inexplicable joy. _ I am praying for a girl, this time. _

“You do not wish for me to join you?” he asked as he took hold of her foot and gently caressed it,  moving from her ankle, further up her leg and thigh-- all the while walking closer to the tub. Larra bit her lip to stifle a smile as she shook her head.

“It would be unkind of you to deny, as I am in dire need of a bath,” he whispered wickedly and Larra did move, to make place for her husband opposite her. Viserys climbed into the tub and rejoiced in the warmth. He gently grabbed Larra’s arm and moved her body to his, so that her back was to his front. A soft kiss was placed on her brow, by her husband and Larra sighed deeply in bliss.

Viserys grabbed the bottle of lavender soap and began anointing Larra’s legs in a tender fashion. She leaned her head into the crook of his neck and kissed the soft flesh there.

“You have gotten stronger,” she told him breathlessly and he nodded. 

“I spar with the squires and knights in the courtyard on the occasion,” he admitted and he felt Larra nod. His deft fingers moved upward and Larra gasped as she felt them caress her inner thighs.

“I miss you,” Viserys whispered as he continued his touches. “I love you more than life itself,” he added. 

“I know,” she sighed, but she said the words so sadly that it tore at his very soul.

“What did you spend your day doing?” he asked Larra as his hands moved to gently cup the swell of her belly. The mood shifted and he could feel the sadness coming to grip its sharp claws into his wife, yet again.  _ I should not have asked,  _ he scolded himself.  _ We were doing so well. _

“I took a trip to court.” her words were terse and abrupt. He knew now. The previouscarefree air of the room, now a mere memory; so he thought that he might as well inquire. 

“And what passed?” he asked. Larra turned her head to stare at the wall in front of her. Viserys moved his hands to cup her chin, softly and turn her head toward him. 

“I asked you a question,” he told her, not unkindly and he saw the tragic pain behind those lavender eyes.

“Lady Brenalda Osprey told me that I was no fit consort for a prince. She told me that I should take my wanton being and Lyseni whelps back to where we originated. Maybe I could make coin for us by whoring in a pleasure garden, which is what my people are most known for,” Larra scoffed and then continued. “Of course she spoke the words with a smile, as my interpreter was not with me and she thinks I know naught of the common tongue.”  His wife had begun learning the common tongue slowly, and would only take lessons with her husband-- yet she learned. None of the lords and ladies at court knew of this, though. Not even the maesters. _ Larra wishes it to be kept a secret, and I promised her that it was mine to keep. _

An anger grew steadily in Viserys’s chest.  _ That vicious crone! _

“Do not listen to that old hag. She has been flaunting her homely daughter in front of me, for over a year now. She thinks her daughter’s maiden cunt will make me betray my vows to you. She is but a drop in the sea, compared to you. I will  _ never  _ hurt you,” he promised fervently as he held her in his arms.

“As you say, my prince,” Larra replied in a distant voice.

Viserys feverishly looked into her eyes of lavender that met his of true purple, and through them; conveyed a scalding love that left nothing but ruin in its wake. Then he kissed her. It was rushed, chaotic and full of passion, yet sweet nonetheless.  _ The masked scent of doom lingers here, can she feel it?  _ He thought fervently.  _ It always smells so sweet, until its stench turns bitter as the foulest truth. _

Somewhere, in the midst of crazed touches, fervent pleas and feverish kisses-- the bathwater turned cold and Larra began shivering in the dreary room. Goosepimples began covering her fine, white skin. Viserys embraced her hard, and conveyed through that; all the words he could not say in that moment. How much she meant to him, how he loved her so, for giving him a life of mirth. And how he wished it could have been the same for her. Alas, the unwanted truth often leaves the taste of bitterness upon your tongue; as soon as you embrace it for what it is.

Gently, Viserys let go of his wife, to her dismay, and moved to gather the robes left behind by the servants that Larra had dismissed.

“Come,” he beckoned his wife and she rose. Drops of glistening water trickled down her body as she moved, and made her resemble the depictions he had once seen, of the fiercely beautiful Valyrian goddesses-- all those years ago, in Lys. 

He handed her one of the robes, but she instead moved to unlace his own and wrapped her arms around his clammy body, all the while pressing herself against him. They were one, skin on skin, body on body.  _ Heart on heart. _ She leaned her head against the crook of his neck, and Viserys sighed in bliss.  _ We are whole. _

“Bearing my child makes you affectionate. Yet I am not complaining, my love,” he whispered and felt her nod. His hands reached down and carressed her body, from her smooth curls of molten metal, to her soft thighs of alabaster skin.

“Motherhood softens even the hardest of hearts,” she told him in a voice as smooth as satin. 

“Yours was never too harsh to begin with,” Viserys responded. Larra looked up at him with her wise eyes of an ancient freehold. A certain emotion, he could not quite say what it was; was swivelling and festering within them.

“I suppose not.” her words sounded peculiarly haughty and eerie. As if they were a part of a riddle he did not quite understand.  _ They seem ominous. _

He kissed her lips gently, to silence both their mouths For their bodies to speak when their minds were at a loss. Larra sighed and held onto him, so hard that he feared they should both perish underneath this spell of love and grief. After all; what does love bring in the end, but sorrow? Without breaking their dance of love, Viserys reached for the discarded robe and wrapped it around Larra’s slim body. Then he grasped her waist and hips, to lift her up and carry her to their bed.

He laid her on the bed, and breathed in with a wicked smile gracing his lips. Larra smiled coyly. His gaze softened.

“You are too beautiful for words,” he told her, and the look in her eyes made him feel a boy of ten, all over again.  _ Unsure, and craving her approval. It was always her, for me. Always. From the moment I looked upon her, I knew she was to be mine or I would perish trying to make it so.  _

“You are blinded with love,” she smiled, but there was no mirth to her tone.

“For you. Only you,” he promised. 

“That is a treacherous thing to be, my prince,” she breathed and grasped her bottom lip with her teeth. 

“Then let it consume me, for nothing has ever tasted sweeter.” Larra reached her arms out, beckoning him closer, and he obliged willingly. He crawled on top of her and relished in her giggles as he tickled her neck with his silver-gold hair and tantalizing kisses.

“Stop it, you know I am-” and then she would burst out into laughter, yet again.  _ Music to my ears.  _

Viserys stopped suddenly, and both of them looked into their eyes of lost history, that spoke of an ancient heritage that was shared. He searched her face for long, and saw a softness that she harbored for him and their children. Yet there was something else, and it was ever present. _ It weighs her down, oh, she can never escape its grasp, _ he thought sadly.

“We can be happy, we will be.” His words were a promise, yet they sounded so horrid upon his tongue, false to their very core. Larra shook her head as her pale eyes drifted away, they glistened with unshed tears and she took the time before giving him a response. 

“The sun will never shine on the both of us.” 

“Oh, my love,” were his only words. For what could he ever say of comfort to her? What would take her pain away and mend her broken soul?  _ Nothing. _ That was the truth of it.  _ We cannot go back to Lys, and her very being grows weaker and more haunting, the longer we spend in this foul city. Would that I had never been born a prince of the blood, and she a fair noblewoman. We could have been the prince and princess of whatever peasant village, as long as we would have had each other.  _ As noted; our prince was young, still. He possessed all the naivety and hope of those who are. Those who were older, like his lovely wife, saw happiness as a waning hope, and the world had hardened them. Naivety is hard to find in those who are hardened by age, and the battles that it brings.

Later that year, his lady-wife gave birth to their only daughter; The Princess Naerys Targaryen. A weak, sickly and small thing she had been, so much that Larra and Viserys feared her death would be imminent. Yet their princess was a dragon, and she flourished. His wife’s melancholy heart grew ever sadder, and she was never truly happy in the capital, so she left. One year after the birth of their daughter, his lady-wife returned to her homeland of Lys. She died not many years after, and Viserys would forever be haunted by her departure. He grew cold and stern, so unlike the happy and charming prince that he had once been.

  
  
  



	17. This bastard love is bastard born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiera interacts with both Aegor and Brynden. And is... well Shiera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter on Shiera and Brynden, with some Aegor mixed into it. 
> 
> Shiera was a bad bitch, there's no denying that, and I always assumed that some freaky blood-magic stuff went on in her and Brynden's relationship, but if it worked... is completely subjective. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I love feedback and your comments, so please feel free to leave a comment down below about your thoughts, perceptions, suggestions, anything! 
> 
> Don't forget to leave a kudos if you enjoyed it :). 
> 
> Until next time

 

 

 

Angry, purple eyes scorched their way into the back of Shiera’s head. She turned and sure enough, it was those of her half-brother, Aegor Rivers.  _ He unnerves me the way not even my father did when he lived. _ Shiera was a legitimized bastard, as was all her siblings-- yet she did not claim the Targaryen name. Instead, she chose to honor that which her mother gave her; Shiera Seastar.  _ Star of the sea. _

She was allowed to remain at court by her other half-brother, King Daeron.  _ They call him ‘the good’ and he is. He is a much better king than our father ever was, and  inherited the best of his mother and uncle… or father. Depending on which rumors people choose to believe in.  _ Such matters were of no consequence to Shiera though. _ They were both brothers anyway, better the child be born of the good one. _

Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon had always treated Shiera gently, even though they knew from what she was born.  _ They never blamed me, or scorned me. They were gentle and kind, and for that I am forever grateful. _ Queen Naerys had read the Seven-Pointed-Star to Shiera when she was a young child, and Prince Aemon had made a fool of himself, only to hear her childish giggles. Even as a young girl, Shiera had found the queen to be beautiful, both inside and out, and she never understood why the king despised her and their brother to such extents. Prince Aemon had been a god of a man, even that, Shiera had been able to see.  _ Now they are both gone, _ she thought bitterly.  _ And here I remain. _

Footsteps were quickly approaching her at the bench she was reading by, and she prayed to whatever gods would listen, to please make him turn back and leave her in peace.  _ I do not have the strength to deal with him this morn _ . Alas, the gods were not on her side this day.

“Lady Shiera,” Aegor smiled, which looked more like a grimace to her, and it truly made her skin crawl as if it was covered with a thousand maggots.

“Aegor,” she allowed and remained uninterested as she turned to the next page in her book about the lost arts of Valyria.  _ A gift my mother left behind for me. _ He did not make any effort to leave or acknowledge her disinterest.

“You are still here,” she noted as she craned her delicate neck to look upward at him, with her mismatched eyes. 

“Would you like to take a stroll in the gardens, this eve? They are beautiful this time of year, especially in the light of the moon.” He looked almost nervous as he asked the question and Shiera’s features transformed into a wicked smile.

“I fear I must decline. I have plans otherwise,” she said in a soft voice and with an innocent gaze. Aegor cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable with her mismatched eyes burning into his very soul. 

“May I ask what it is you are going to be doing?”  _ No you may not, but your reaction may prove amusing to me. _

“I will be meeting with Lord Brynden,” she said and Aegor’s hard, purple eyes narrowed. 

“Bloodraven?” he spit out. Shiera raised an eyebrow at him.

“The very one,” she replied and smiled so beautifully that one would have wept to gaze upon such beauty. 

“Are you whoring yourself out for him?” Aegor spit out and Shiera grew vexed.  _ How dare he? If I bed Brynden, it is none of his business. I was never his and never will be, he is nothing to me but an angry, cruel man who needs to know his place _ . She stood up and struck him hard on the cheek and delighted in watching it redden.

“You forget yourself, Aegor. Do not presume to speak to me in such a manner ever again,” Shiera began as she leaned closer to that wretched half-brother of hers. 

“And if I do spend my eves fucking Brynden, it is no one’s matter but my own. I am not a Westerosi lady, but Valyrian to my very core, which is more than you, yourself can vouch for. You were born a bastard and you shall always remain one, no matter how many kings declare you legitimized,” she continued with a sneer, but even that did nothing to dull the loveliness of her face. 

“I am nothing to you and you are nothing to me. Not anymore. I will  _ always  _ choose Brynden, over an angry bastard who fucks as if it is a duty. But do not fret, I am sure there is some Lyseni whore on the Street Of Silk that would suffer your short touches for a little gold.” Aegor remained quiet throughout her words but the coldness in his look only increased.

“You did bed me once,” Aegor told her and Shiera closed her eyes in exasperation.

“Something I regret very much. I was a young and foolish girl,” she allowed. 

“I will slay him one day. That is a promise, not a threat,” he told her in a quiet, thoughtful voice, then he moved to depart.

“I bid you good luck with that,” Shiera said as she waved the matter off and returned to her book.  _ Finally the wretch has left me alone. Out of all my suitors, he was the most horrid of them all.  _

Later that eve, Shiera was sitting in front of her vanity, brushing her silver-gold strands of hair until they shone like mother of pearl. It was tedious work, for her hair was nigh upon reaching the floors-- yet she did not mind it. It always soothed her mind and made her see matters more clearly. On this particular eve, her thoughts drifted back toward Aegor, who she had once let inside both her mind and body.  _ I wish I could take it back, yet it is done and cannot be undone.  _ Though annoyed by her half-brother’s love for her, she had not always had this sort of dislike toward him.

_ Once when I was a girl, he would let me climb atop his shoulders, as if he was my very own dragon, and raced through the halls of the Red Keep, where my childish laughter would echoe off of the walls. _ As she grew older and flowered, her dragon wanted a different sort of rider.  _ His words turned to kisses, his innocent caresses turned to deft fingers creeping up my thighs and within. _ She had not minded at first, although many found Aegor sour, she had always thought of him as her brother, who was kind to her. Then she saw proof of his nature. He wanted her, and for her to remain his, even though he would stick his sword up any willing maiden or whore.

_ He wanted me as all men want their women, naked, willing and only theirs-- to pop out some whelps and then be discarded for a fresh-faced, pink-cheeked maiden with a tight cunt,  _ Shiera noted in disgust. Though her lover, Brynden, would hide his jealousy well. He never undermined her or forced her to accept his whims. He was also not as sour and bitter as Aegor, Brynden was enchanting, dark and mysterious _. He brings promises of secrets to come, and values the magical arts of our ancestors. _ Lord Brynden’s skills in the bedchamber, was only an added bonus, in Shiera’s mismatched eyes.

Now Brynden had been an entirely different matter. He had not lived at court throughout her childhood, but returned just as she was entering her womanhood. He was never as handsome as Daemon or Aegor, nor as tall or strong-- but something drew Shiera to him, some dark, unnerving and seducing force that left corpses wherever it went. Her lover was always different, like her _. I was of foreign blood, with mismatched eyes and knobbly knees. He was pale as snow, with rubies for eyes, a dark birthmark and sinful lips. _

For moons, they had danced around each other as if they were fire and feared the blistering heat that could scald them, if they ever came too close. Polite words were exchanged in court, but their eyes spoke of a different song. _ A dangerous, wicked one, but sweet nonetheless. _ The years were kind to Shiera’s form as she grew into a woman. Skinny knees and narrow hips became tantalizing curves of flesh and bone. Her waist remained slim, but her hips widened, her flat chest filled out and became voluptuous. Oh, Shiera became the envy of every maid and lady, the bane of every lord, man and knight with a functioning cock. A queen with a bastard’s name, she truly was.

She saw how men would kill themselves if lost from her gentle favor, how they would duel one another, for the chance of a seat beside her. All of that amused her, yes. But that was all. Shiera would begin to see ravens in her dream, eerily aware of their gaze on her, as she took strolls in the courtyard. Somewhere, deep inside her, Brynden’s name began to make sense, each time she felt this peculiar feeling, or dreamt these wicked dreams. It would torture her, until almost a year past their first meeting, when he begged leave to speak with her privily, in her chambers.  _ I indulged him. _

That was the night that her Brynden first bedded her. The magic of the evening remained, still as vivid now, as it had been years past. Shiera had decided to sacrifice to the Valyrian god of love, before he arrived--  _ to bind him to me. _ Yet that had hardly been necessary, as Brynden belonged to her, from the very moment he laid his eyes of blood upon hers of the sea. These spells of old Valyria demanded their due, however, and Shiera would not dream of angering or playing games with the gods. Duly, she had taken the blade of gilded steel, and slashed a sharp, crimson cut into the palm of her hand.

She remembered the feeling of utter euphoria and exhilaration, as she saw those drops of scarlet gather in her palm, like beads of glistening wine, flowing freely. She poured them above the brazier as she spoke her prayers in a tongue long forgotten by Westeros. The flames had licked at her skin, yet did not burn her. Their color changed from a vivid orange, to a pure lilac, and then it turned black and hissing-- spitting and moving violently, in the quiet of her chamber. Her heart had been racing, her mind at ease.  _ This is what Valyria of old was like, my true home, and my mother’s, and her mother’s before her,  _ Shiera had found herself thinking in a feverish manner.

Not long after, Shiera had heard a soft knock upon her door, and moved to open it. A thin shift covered her body, but no one could ever claim it to have been modest. Brynden’s eyes had looked as blistering as the seven hells, when he gazed upon her.

_ “You are bleeding,” he told her as thin, droplets of ruby red flowed from the white of her palm. _

_ “It is nothing, Lord Brynden,” Shiera said with a gentle smile but he remained unmoved, grabbed her hand and inspected it. A frown caressed his smooth, milky skin.  _

_ “Did you do this yourself?” he asked and Shiera raised a dark, silvery eyebrow.  _

_ “Yes. my faith demanded it. The Gods are not to be made mock of, Lord Brynden,” she told him and he nodded after a few moments.  _

_ “It is only Brynden to you. You are family.” A softness clouded his eyes and tore at her heart.  _

_ “Is that so?” she smirked.  _

_ Then Brynden surprised her, when she thought there were no more to be had. He lifted her scarlet palm to his lips and kissed the soft flesh there. The feel of it stinged, yet filled her with pleasure. When he removed her hands from his lips, they were spattered with spots of blood. Her blood. Something felt so wrong, yet so right and intoxicating from the very sight. She had never known anything so intimate, not even when Aegor had been in her and whispered his declarations of love, whilst she cringed beneath him. _

_ Her eyes had grown as big as a maiden’s on her wedding day. If you asked Brynden, nothing looked more beautiful than the sight of her in that moment. Her vivid eyes of jade and sapphire-- almost fully eclipsed by the black of her pupils, in the candlelight. Her lips were half-parted and glistening pink, he heard her shallow breaths and saw her chest rising and falling, in an almost feral manner. No words were exchanged betwixt them, for so long that it seemed winter had come and passed. No words were needed. _

_ Slowly, Brynden leaned toward her, so close she could feel his hot breath tickle her face. It smelled of mint leaves and something unknown. It all became to much for Shiera, so she grabbed hold of his white hair, and put her lips on his own. They molded together in a fierce dance of lust and old gods that were forgotten by the world--they were gods. He tasted of the very same mint leaves and her own scarlet blood. An intoxicating rush of things unknown, filled her veins, as hot as fire burns, and Brynden seemed to fare no better. _

_ His breathing grew as ragged and shallow as hers, a ferocity took hold of him, and he picked her lithe body up, to her bed of satin blue sheets and a green canopy. She relished in the feel of his knowing hands on her, touching, caressing, scratching. They felt cool upon her skin and she was burning from within. _

_ “What a lovely necklace,” Brynden breathed as he toyed with it, as a kitten would a string of yarn. His hand moved down from the gems and ornate silver slowly, to the swell of her breast. _

_ “I could commission you one in gold,” he offered, offhandedly and then his lips were on her neck, once more. _

_ “No… it’s too vulgar,” she said weakly as she writhed beneath him-- silver-gold hair spilling across the plush pillows of the finest velvet.  _

_ “Then I shall find something that is not gold,” he promised. Shiera nodded with her eyes closed in utter bliss. _

_ His fingers moved downward, and suddenly he turned to look at her, with traces of her blood on his chin, neck and shoulders-- from where she had kissed and grasped him so fiercely. _

_ “Are you… a maiden?” he asked queerly but Shiera fervently shook her head. No, that had been lost long ago. The favor of being a bastard was that no one gave a rat’s arse, whether you were a maiden or not. It was not as if some rich lord would want a bastard for a wife, anyway. Well… Shiera was an exception to them, but not to herself.  _

_ Something akin to jealousy swirled in those eyes of rubies and Shiera decided to speak in her throes of passion. _

_ “I could be if you wish me to be,” she said with a shrug, as if it mattered not. It did not.  _

_ “Saves me the effort of gentleness,” Brynden allowed after mere moments and a wicked smile touched Shiera’s lips, which then turned into a gasp as Brynden entered her. She swore that her eyes must have rolled into the back of her skull and-- _

That had been the first time that Brynden asked her to wed him. She declined and told him that she had been young, without any wishes to tie herself to a man, or have babes. It had made Brynden grow wroth, so he took her harder than the first time, yet Shiera relished in his touches. An ominous feeling of a wicked doom, with kingdoms bleeding for the love of few-- took hold and festered within her that eve.

A chill brought her back to her current reality, and gooseprickles formed on her pale skin.  _ These damned maids need to learn how to close this wretched window, or come winter and i’ll freeze! _ Shiera thought angrily. That was when a blurry movement of black, caught the ends of her vision. She willed the smirk to begone from her lips, as she liked to play this game just as well, as her Brynden did.

“Damned maids,” she cursed and purposefully bent down, and climbed atop the small table to properly close the draughty window. She hoped the sight would entice her Brynden, at least some. A smile formed on her lips, as she felt big, slender hands grab hold of her waist and drag her into him. He held her fiercely for a while, not saying anything and burying his face into her neck breathing in deeply.

“I missed you,” He whispered, and he sounded… defeated. Shiera turned around to look at her lover and she noticed that he was sporting a nasty bruise on his cheek. She touched it softly with her fingers, and he winced.  _ Oh, my love... _

“What happened, Brynden?” She demanded in a worried tone. He waved it off as he removed his black cloak.

“Nothing you should concern yourself with, my lady,” he told her and smiled, even though it looked painful. 

Shiera looked at him with an unyielding look, until he withered in the glow of it.

“Some trouble with Aegor,” he finally allowed, and almost spit out their half-brother’s name. Shiera beckoned for him to sit down on the chair, and he did so. She then moved to straddle him and began caressing his face.

“And what did our unruly half-brother do?” she asked, knowing how much the two hated each other. 

“The usual. Then he said that you were only a whore who had fucked all of your brothers, and I could not stand there whilst he said such foul things of you. So, I struck him.” 

“And he struck you right back, I see,” she said humorlessly as she pursed her lips and Brynden nodded. 

“Yet it is fine. Do you wish to know why?” Shiera nodded.  _ I do. _

“Because I have the one thing he shall never have.” His words were a wicked whisper.

“What may that be?” she breathed as she felt his hands on her backside and bit her lip. 

“You.”  _ Even though I won’t ever wed you?  _ The thoughts brought a melancholy that took root in her heart and soul. _ I am too vile for this man, he should not love me the way he does. I am not worthy of him.  _

“Why the sad gaze, my love of the sea?” Brynden asked with a tender caress, and worry in those ruby eyes. She smiled and straightened her back.

“Nothing. I love you, you know that? You needn’t defend my honor at your own cost. I am a bastard, no matter who legitimizes me.” Brynden kissed her lips softly.

“You are the reason I live. Of course I will defend your honor, to any man who dares speak ill of you. If you are still a bastard, then so am I. They would have never accepted us as otherwise,” he told her as he gazed into her eyes. Shiera nodded and lifted his white tunic above his head, to discard it to the floor. 

_ He is not as muscular as Daemon or Aegor, but he boasts a fierce strength in his body _ . He was more lean, than burly and thick. She felt the ripples of his smooth stomach. Valyrian steel.  _ Ice and Fire _ . he was of the ice, and the fire. She was only fire.  _ Fire means death, unless it is quenched. _

“Marry me,” Brynden pleaded through feverish kisses and hands through her hair. She beckoned him to stand up, so she could remove his breeches, then she sat him right back down and straddled him. 

Her soft, left hand touched his cheek with the utmost tenderness and a sad frown covered her face.

“I shan’t marry you, Brynden. Nor shall I wed anyone, for that matter. Just know that you have my heart and soul. Always.” Her voice turned tearful. A blank gaze transformed his features and he looked sinister, no more.  _ He looks like a young man, whose heart I have broken more than once. I am so sorry, my love. I do not mean for you to hurt like this but… I can’t. I simply cannot.  _

Instead of replying, he simply captured his lips on her own, yet again, and pulled her nightgown further up, to caress the smooth skin beneath.

“I love you,” he whispered so brokenly between kisses.  _ Too much. You love me too much, and for that, both of us will burn. All of us will burn.  _

Shiera never married Brynden, nor anyone else. It is not known what happened to her. Perhaps she grew great with his child, and birthed him a bastard daughter… or son. Maybe she did not, and simply died of an illness. Brynden was sent to the wall for his crimes and became Lord Commander, then he disappeared; never to return. They say he became the three-eyed-raven-- a being as ominous as his birthmark.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	18. The gods take what they see as their due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valarr and Kiera lose their second son, and it tears at them like nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter on the requested Valarr and Kiera. It's a shorter one, but i'm thinking I may write another one, when i'm done with a few others. This is but a glimpse, so to say.  
> The timelines may be a little off because-- well they're not really known. It's not a very big deal in this chapter, though. 
> 
> (I want to thank all the people who commented in the previous chapter; I have been very busy in school so I haven't had the time to look all of them through and reply, but I will!)
> 
> I'm a bit hesitant toward this chapter tbh because not much is known about these people, but I tried writing it in the way I would have expected them to behave, from what I knew.
> 
> Also it's like 2 in the morning so it hasn't been edited, forgive me for any mistakes, I finished it just now lol. 
> 
> Would love to hear your thoughts on it so please leave a comment down below! 
> 
> don't forget to leave a kudos if you enjoy this series, too!
> 
> hint; the next chapter will probs be on Aegon V and one of his sisters
> 
> goodnight :)

 

 

 

“Hush now, my sweet.” Valarr’s voice was quiet, warming and soothed his wife’s desperately screaming heart. Now two had been lost, two sons.  _ Vaegon and Aeron, that was what they were to have been called. My innocent sons.  _ It enraged the prince so, how the gods would deem the children of whores and peasants who could not afford to feed them, worthy of life-- and yet besteal him and Kiera of this one joy. _ My sweet and kind wife, for each one that perishes, so does a piece of her heart.  _

Her raven hair was matted with sweat, from pushing yet another dead child out of her womb. Red-brown eyes met his of the sea, and they were glazed with such a fierce pain that he had to look away. _It is me who hurts her so._ _If I would not bed her, then she would know naught of this misery._ It was wrong to think of it in that way, but what other way was there? His wife was broken and hurting, and so was he. _What is so terribly wrong with us? We are young. Kiera is only seven-and-ten  whilst I am eight-and-ten. Queen Alysanne birthed a healthy babe when she was over forty…_

“What did I do wrong?” she asked as she tore at the sheets in her motherly aches. Such a fierce and paralyzing pain, it was, to lose a child. No one but the mothers who have, know what it is like. To carry it within your womb, from a little quickening, to a kicking and fierce babe, ready to depart from it. How it becomes one with the mother, it feels her pain, her joy and her misery. A week past, Aeron had been kicking wildly in Kiera’s womb but now… _ Now there is only death and pain in this room. Its scent lingers, festers and promises forthcoming doom. Can they feel it as I do? This sick and sweet smell. Tell me you do, please tell me you do, too! _ He fervently thought.

Tears ran down his cheeks and all he could think of, was that this was not how it was meant to be. They were supposed to have two healthy and strong sons.  _ We were supposed to leave with a child, not a corpse _ . Aeron was still in the room, right next to Kiera in a cot. Yet he did not weep, nor do anything at all; that was the most haunting part of it all. Valarr moved from his wife’s bedside, to the cot where his fear awaited. He willed himself to be strong.  _ They call me the brave, so I must be. _

This was not some wicked monster, born with scaly skin and a hole for a heart. It was just a babe who was born without a breath-- already taken by death. Aeron was beautiful, with tufts of black hair, a streak of silver running through it.  _ Almost as I,  _ Valarr thought sadly. _ I wonder if he would have had my eyes or his mother’s. _ Valarr would never know, as he would not defile his son’s body for such thoughts of little consequence.  _ My boy… _ He picked Aeron up gently, and his son felt cold, too cold to have been living inside Kiera, just moments earlier. The babe looked to almost be smiling.

“He has your lips and my nose,” Valarr told his wife, with a sweet, ruined smile. How wretchedly lovely this moment truly was. His wife shook her head and wept harder.

“No, I can’t--please stop,” she begged him with everything she had in her. 

“I know it hurts, believe me,” his voice cracked “But you will regret it, if you did not at least hold him and whisper your goodbyes-- before he is given to the fire,” Valarr continued as he handed Kiera the babe, silent and unmoving. She accepted the bundle in her shaking arms, as tired tears from pain and exhaustion, would not take their leave of her.

How horribly broken she looked in that moment, how tragically beautiful-- red-faced and tear-stained as she was.  _ We mirror each other,  _ he thought. What words could do justice to the scene in that bedward? Of Prince Valarr’s broken soul and Lady Kiera’s bitter, heart-wrenching tears and feverish pleas to whatever gods would listen; for them to breathe life into her son? How they both wept to know, that they would never hold him, living, in their arms.

“We will make another, and he will live. I promise,” Valarr said as he put his forehead on hers, his hand was on her arm, and the other on her cheek-- in a tender caress. Kiera did not believe him.

With shaking, dainty fingers, Kiera removed the part of the blanket that was covering Aeron’s face and looked at him. She truly looked at him, burning every inch of his face into her mind-- before it would be lost forever. She touched his still, tiny, cold hand and burst out into new sobs-- for it would never grasp her finger like a newly born babe’s does.  _ Never. _

“Oh, no,” she wept. “Why did they take you from me? Give him back! He was not yours to take!” she pleaded brokenly.

“None of them were, but the gods take what they see as their due. It matters not how much we plead for them not to.” How hopeless and dull everything seemed to Valarr then, and the aching hole in his heart only festered and grew larger. _ I wished to be a father, just as good as mine was to me. What terrible sins did we commit? What treacheries did we have a hand in? We are good people, Kiera and I. We are not gods, but we are good, we try to be. So why will the gods not shine upon us? Or allow us this one, minor joy? _ He could not for the life of him, think of what he had done to warrant this.

Kiera softly kissed their babe on his brow.

“You were Aeron Targaryen, my sweet. This will not be the end, and it is only the beginning for you. We shall all meet again, you, your brother, Valarr and I. We will reunite, do not doubt it. Just know that we loved you. Oh, we loved you so very much, my little one,” she cried and could not continue. Her salty tears stained the brow of their son. Tenderly, Valarr wiped it away with his fingers. Then he also spoke. 

“Goodnight, my son. Forever.” after that, he kissed a soft cheek, and handed Aeron to the nursemaid.

“The pyre. He is Targaryen,” Valarr said tersely, but the woman nodded nonetheless. 

“Now we must get you to the maester, my love. I will not lose you to childbed fever, as well.” Kiera numbly nodded, but the loss of their son was still fresh-- so he allowed her to fret,  _ lest she heals and has them bleed afresh.  _

***

Moons passed and Kiera would still not bed him, yet Valarr took it in stride.  _ I am not the sort to force myself upon my wife,  _ he thought, disgusted.  _ She is scared and hurting, and I understand.  _ Kiera was fearful of another dead babe, she wished to never experience such a horrid pain, ever again. His wife would do anything, but have him spill his seed inside of her.

On this particular eve, Kiera was dressed in a pale Tyroshi nightgown, and brushing her long, onyx hair in front of the vanity. She was short of stature, barely above five foot-- oh how Valarr used to love gathering her up in his arms, in happier times. When they were newly wed and all that they knew were fucking each other and tending to minor duties.  _ When we were not burdened with this dark cloud of grief, that touches our very mind and hearts-- to follow us wherever we go. _ They had been younger then, and more naive. Age had hardened them both in ways no one wishes to be hardened.

“Let me,” Valarr said as he walked up to her and grabbed the brush from her hold. She nodded and sat down onto the plush chair. Breathing softly, Valarr took hold of a patch of onyx and began brushing it softly-- rejoicing in the silky feel and smooth texture.

“How are you feeling?” he asked tenderly and Kiera put up her wall of stone. 

“I am good, my prince,” she said so formally that one would not believe that they were married, and had engaged in half of the things they had. 

“You do not have to be so courteous. I am your husband, not some callow lordling. I have been inside you,” he said quietly as he ran his long fingers through her hair. Red-brown eyes followed his movements from the mirror, a faint blush began to cover Kiera’s cheeks.

“You are too young to be hurting this way, all alone. We both are. We must be each other’s strengths, when we are failing ourselves,” he told her and watched as she turned her gaze downward.

“I am not good enough for you.”

“How can you say that? Of course you are,” he assured her as he tenderly began to massage her shoulders, putting the brush down on the vanity. 

“No. I am not,” she said in a tearful voice. “I have failed to bear you any living children, I hear the whispers of the lords and ladies at court. You deserve a pureborn Westerosi Lady. Not an eastern, Tyroshi whore,” she cursed herself, furiously wiping at angry tears that escaped her eyes. Valarr ceased his movements _. Is that what she thinks? Is this what she thinks of herself as? He was horrified by the thoughts _ .

He went to get on his knees in front of her, and looked up with his haunting, blue eyes that met hers of the earth.

“Do not ever speak so lowly of yourself,” he said in a voice of stone.

“I love you, as I loved the sons we lost. I cannot lose you too, I refuse. Swear to me, that I am yours-- for you shall forever be mine,” he begged her and all of their walls came crumbling down. He began weeping, for the sons they lost, for the life they lost, too-- for the immense pressure of their world, and the sorrow they were never truly allowed to express. 

He laid his head in her knees, and continued to weep like their son should have, when he was born. Kiera shushed him and gently soothed him, combing her gentle hands through his brown hair, stopping to grasp the streak of silver.

“Oh it has truly been a difficult few years, Valarr. It has,” she agreed. “But I have you, and you have me. We mustn’t forget, as we had, until now.” she continued in her rich, velvety tones. 

She leaned down to kiss his head, and he quieted down. When he looked up at her again, he saw their futures unfold, in silver and monotone shades of black. Believe him when he says, that it already made him want to take many steps back.  _ We are doomed, are we not? _

Yet none of that was of any consequence now. All that mattered were them, together, in that wretched chamber of grief. Valarr moved to kiss his wife and she did not shy away. His hands grasped her waist fiercely from the silk of her gown, and she fell on top of him, down on the floor. Their laughter echoed throughout the eerie chamber of sweat and regret. He rejoiced in it, for it was the first time they had done so, since the death of Aeron.

“I love you,” he said, with stormy blue eyes, like rough seas. Kiera nodded and kissed him gently, yet again. There was no urgency or ferocity to it. They were two people who dearly loved each other, and had been hurting for too long. They were starved of each other.

“I love you, I need you,” she told him through kisses of grief and love. 

What a broken love he made to her, that eve.

No living sons or daughters would grow to be born to Kiera or Valarr. The Stranger would never quit his incessant knocking at their doorstep. Our brave prince would die the same year as his father, from the Great Spring Sickness. He was but a man of twenty. Kiera would wed again, to his cousin-- whom they called Daeron the Drunken. She bore him a simple daughter, named Vaella. That was the end for our Prince Valarr and his Tyroshi Lady Kiera.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	19. Your time will come, if only you wait for it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go through moments the life as a second daughter, second to everything-- even her brother's love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter on Rhae Targaryen and Aegon V Targaryen.  
> I hope that it is understood in this chapter, that Rhae was weary of never being loved enough. That everyone was simply a bit too busy for her, never giving her what she truly needed. 
> 
> it's a long one, and I will probs come and edit this A/N when I wake. It's like 4 in the morning.
> 
> please leave a kudos if you enjoyed it and i'm dying for your comments, so please leave some. I'm very interested in what y'all thought.

 

 

 

“Come on, Rhae. It is your turn,” Daella told her younger sister, in that soft and gentle voice. Rhae despised that tone, for it lulled and enchanted every spectator that her sweet sister happened upon. _ I should not scorn her so, not even in my thoughts. Daella has always been there for me _ . Yet resentment is like a seed, and it only grows larger each time it is watered. 

“I am bored. I do not wish to play any longer,” Rhae told her sister with a dismissive gesture, and moved to rise. Daella frowned with those dark, blue eyes of hers.  _ They are the night-sky on a starless eve, the ocean after the waves have ran their course.  _ That terribly rousing color, that leaves no one with a sound mind. It was the sort of shade that songs were sung of, poems written of.  _ Eyes like the color of shining, blue stars. Our mother’s eyes.  _

Thoughts of their mother always left Rhae with a dark, twisting, choking and consuming hole of grief in her gut. Their mother had been taken from them too soon, giving birth to crimson lumps of blood and dying not soon after. _ They say she caught the fever. _ Daella became the acting mother of Rhae, not long after.  _ I was so young, we were all so young, to have her taken from us _ . _ Even father, the hardened warrior, had wept as he laid his eyes upon his wife in her feverish bed of blood. _ Maekar had loved his Lady Dyanna of house Dayne. That, Rhae knew. 

That had also been the only time that Rhae had ever seen their brother, Aerion, act as a human should. _ He had tears shining in those purple eyes of his. I saw them! If ever he loved anyone, it was our mother.  _ With their mother, Rhae suspected that the last of Aerion’s feelings had perished as well. Daella, Aemon and Aegon had taken it in stride. They grieved but life went on. The pain of their mother’s passing, dulled within every moon that passed, every winter that came and went. 

For them presently, it was only an occasional throbbing pain in times of loneliness. For Rhae, it was different. _ They had known mother, been there for many of her smiles and are here to remember, and tell the stories. I was so young… so young when she perished and I…  _ The memories Rhae had, weakened with age, and she feared that none would soon remain. Those of the dark-haired lady with her eyes a haunting blue of midnight skies and seas. 

Presently, Rhae was a woman of seven and ten, fair and flowered. With the silver-gold hair of the Targaryens, delicate features and gentle face, Rhae was as fair as any woman could be. Her eyes were a solid lilac with no intricacies or details, like those of her sister. _ No songs will be sung of my eyes, _ Rhae thought in dismay. Tall like her mother, with a slender form, she had many suitors waiting for her hand. Prince Maekar had not made his choice of whom to wed his daughters to as of yet. Perhaps they would come to find out, soon. 

_ Now Daella, she is the beautiful one.  _ Sweet Rhae always undermined herself, in comparison to her companions, her sister and family. She felt like the ugly duckling that would never come to be the swan. Daella was tall as well, with hair more gold than silver, and her stormy, blue eyes.  _ Daella has more graceful curves than I, such curves that men enjoy. _ Even she had seen how Aerion gazed at Daella as she had flowered. The way his pale eyes would follow her slightest movement, how he would moisten his lips with his tongue but never let his gaze stray.  _  I wonder if he ever looked at me in that fashion. _ Rhae was always somewhere in-between, not quite flat-chested, yet not voluptuous. Her hips were never as wide as her sister’s, her hair not as soft and she could not sing nor sew half as well.  _ Dae always calls me beautiful but I never believe it. For who am I, in comparison to her? _

“Is something the matter? Do you feel ill?” her sister asked as she frowned and two creases resembling the letter V formed. 

“No. I just do not wish to play any longer. Should we go and inquire on what Egg is doing?” Rhae hated the way her voice took on that dreamy, breathless tone when she wished to remain inconspicuous. Their brother had been gone for most of their childhood, yet he was back in their lives, again. _After his rendezvous living the peasant life._ _He left a boy, but returned a man_. Rhae did not quite know how to feel about that prospect. 

He had grown to be even more handsome than Aerion ever was, with none of the cruel nature. Aegon’s hair was long, golden with strands of silver and his jaw, sharp. A straight, slim nose graced his face, with plump, pink lips that looked soft to the touch. His eyes were a purple so dark, that they looked almost black in certain light.  _ He is beautiful, on that, all gods and men can truly agree upon.  _

“He is most like resting. He must be tired from his journey of touring with the smallfolk and giving them grain, earlier.” Her sister’s words held a suspicious tone, almost teasing. Once Rhae tried to give her brother a love potion, so that he would wed her instead of Daella.  _ It was childish play and none were harmed, she suspects too much,  _ Rhae thought irritatedly. There was testament for Daella’s suspicion and within that, worry, however. Rhae was still very much fond of their brother, especially now that he returned as a man grown. 

Aegon had lost his childhood paleness, to be replaced with a light, beige hue from the sun’s scorching rays. He was no longer the short and skinny boy, but had grown into a lean man, with muscled arms and a lithe grace. Her Egg was enough to have any maiden in the realm, on their knees, in front of him. To such extent, was his comeliness. Yet Aegon was a Targaryen, after all. Beauty is to be expected. They were the blood of dragons, gods and monsters. Of a Freehold lost, and kings that were gone. 

“Fine, then we shall see him at supper, I assume. I for one, will retire to have a nap. Fatigue is not becoming for a lady my age and the sun burns hotter than the Seven Hells today.” Then Rhae kissed her sister on the cheek, tenderly, and departed to her own chambers. It never failed to make Rhae disgusted with herself, when she treated Daella with such an undeserved ire. _ I am too cruel, she wishes only the best for me. Why can’t I be as genuinely good, as her? _

Hot tears burned behind those Valyrian eyes of hers, oh how she wished she could be gentler of nature, a beauty worthy of songs being sung of her, enough for their brother to give her more than a fleeting glance.  _ Enough for anyone…  _

The princess’s chambers were decorated most lavishly. With flowery tapestries, maps of old Valyria and commissioned paintings from famous painters-- it was more than apparent that she was a daughter of the blood. Even though she was the fifth-born child of a fourth-born. The color schemes were pale pinks, silvers and purples-- her mother’s favored colors. A large mirror stood tall beside her bed, of beautiful ornate silver, encrusted with jade, sapphire, ruby and other gems. Then the adjacent door led to her bathing room. 

Rhae threw herself on her bed, with the silky, purple sheets with a vigor. The room was silent, but for the tittering of the birds outside her open window. Tears slowly slid down her cheeks. Tears that only a young girl, whose very presence was eclipsed by almost all those around her, can shed. She felt no control of her own being.  _ I am a broodmare waiting to be sold to the highest bidder,  _ she thought sadly. _ And it is not even the one I would want. _

She wondered what was so wrong with her, that Aegon had not visited their father and asked for a betrothal between them.  _ We always got along more than him and Daella. We used to play in the mud and pretend that we were peasants. _ A curious thought befell the princess.  _ Well… now he is. Half-peasant, half-prince, that is. _ She did not know exactly how she felt regarding that matter. 

Rhae knew what went on between a man and his wife, after they were wed-- and she could not help but wonder if Egg had bedded his fair share of willing maidens, like Aerion had.  _ He is surely handsome enough. _ It had not been Septa Olenna who had given her the details, though. All the Septa had told her was that the woman laid there silently, for the man to spill his seed and hopefully it would quicken in the woman’s womb. Praying to the Gods was a necessity, for that to happen, according to Septa Olenna. 

It was Lady Alys, her companion of House Westerling, that had truly told her. Rhae could still remember the burning blush and fervent thoughts that had taken hold in her, those years ago-- when she had been a freshly flowered maiden. 

_ "I am sure the gods will put a babe in her belly,” Rhae told her companion, after Kiera of Tyrosh wed her cousin, Valarr. Kiera was a beautiful Essosi and Valarr was comely with his brown hair, streaked with silver-gold, handsome face and striking blue eyes. Her companion burst out in giggles. _

_ “Oh, Rhae. It is not the gods that will put a babe in Lady Kiera’s belly, it is Prince Valarr’s cock!” Her friend exclaimed and even though they had been companions for years, Lady Alys’s wild, bawdy and unruly nature still brought a fierce blush to her cheeks.  _

_ “Septa Olenna says--” Rhae began indignantly. _

_ “-Septa Olenna is an old crone with a shrivelled up cunt, who has never been bedded-- you should not take her word for it, when it comes to matters such as these,” her friend interrupted her, but not unkindly. Lady Alys’s brown eyes sparkled with mirth.  _

_ "And why should I take yours? Have you?” Rhae arched a silver-gold eyebrow and Lady Alys looked down onto her hands and began fiddling with the rings of gold. A gasp escaped the princess’s lips. _

_ “You have not?” she asked, horrified but also excited-- such a secret being expelled into the open, would ruin any prospects of a wealthy match for Alys.  _

_ “You mustn’t tell anyone, Rhae!” her friend pleaded and Rhae soothed her worries by taking Alys’s hands in hers. _

_ “Of course I shall never tell. I am your friend, and you know me too well,” Rhae said with a sweet smile and her friend sighed in relief.  _

_ “What was it like?” Rhae asked, with a wanton curiosity-- after all, she was a woman now. She thought she deserved to know. The full truth of it.  _

_ “Like nothing any septas will tell you, for sure. He was a knight of my father’s household, sweet and comely, albeit a bit shy.” A fond smile touched Alys’s lips as she recalled the memory.  _

_ “Were you not afraid that he would tell?” Rhae asked, for such liberties would never be extended to her. She would have shamed her entire family and ruined all prospects of a good, wealthy marriage, if she had been bedded before being wedded.  _

_ “No. he was too chivalrous and kind for that. I made sure that he knew nothing would become of us, before we entered our relations. He grew besotted with me, and would do anything I said. So if I said that he could never tell, he would rather fall on his sword than do otherwise.”  _

_ “He was young and now that I think of it; looked a bit like our Prince Valarr; with the brown hair and blue eyes. But oh, Rhae. Men can make a woman feel wondrous, if only they care to. Most fat lords only take their pleasure that they see as their due, and leave us women to bear their children and care for them,” she spoke the last sentence as if they were ashes upon her tongue. “I will never let a man tell me what I should do in mine own bed,” she vowed and Rhae could not help but admire Alys’s fierce dedication.  _

_ Of course Rhae also knew that if Lady Alys’s husband would not agree with her extreme views on certain matters, that she would get a slap or two until she did. Therefore, her heart ached. It is not a woman’s world. We must be meek, and obedient-- otherwise the men will take it upon themselves to make it so, themselves, she thought.  _

Lady Alys wed a second son of house Tyrell, a year after that, when she was six and ten. Her departure from court was met with tears from both of their behalfs, she had been Rhae’s closest companion.  _ I miss her… She brought light and mirth. Alys made the sun shine on me, dazzling and warming-- when I thought it had abandoned me to the dark, for all of time. _ They still wrote to each other, and the untidy scrawl of Alys’s atop those parchments, never failed to lighten the princess’s spirits.  _ She is with his child now, and he treats her kindly, from what she has told me _ . The Tyrell man had been seven years Alys’s senior but quite the man, if her friend was to be believed. 

Rhae suddenly rose from the bed and moved to gaze at herself in the mirror. Her hair was done in intricate, southern braids, her dress made of Tyroshi satin. It had been a gift from Lady Kiera, who said the color reminded her of Rhae’s opaque eyes.  _ It feels so long ago _ . The compliment had meant much to Rhae, it made her feel a speck of the appreciation that was most often given to Daella. Lady Kiera did not gift her sister with anything that eve, but Rhae did see a beautiful, golden necklace with a star-shaped sapphire adorn Daella’s slender neck and collarbone, the very next day.  _ It must have been from Lady Kiera, yet she must not have wanted to gift it to Daella in front of me.  _

The Tyroshi woman had once sat Rhae down, when she had been so young and gazed at her with a tender smile and sadness in her eyes. 

***

“I am a second daughter, as well,” her good-cousin told her with shining, red-brown eyes.

“The struggle we face is often overlooked by others, because we still bear a good name and live in wealth. Many would kill for our privileges, they would have embraced our pain. Yet that does not dull it, invalidate or belittle it, my sweet.” Lady Kiera gently placed her beige hand atop Rhae’s pale ones.

“I-” Rhae began with a wavering pitch but the woman shushed her.

“Daella is beautiful, and she has men and ladies dancing attendance on her, yet it leaves you in the shadow of her greatness, does it not? You force yourself to stuff it down somewhere inside you, where it cannot hurt any longer but all it does is fester. Bitterness grows, it does not die out,” Lady Kiera said as she wiped away a tear that escaped Rhae’s eyes. 

“I do not wish to scorn her, but she does not understand. She will never. It hurts me to treat her poorly, yet what can I offer as reasoning if I do share? I am being childish, she would tell me,” Rhae whispered and the small, Tyroshi woman opened her arms, for her to fall into their lulling embrace.

“Oh, my gentle sweetling. It is not childish, it is human. You crave affection and have to live with being overlooked. It is hard, being a princess. You crave the love of your family, yet Prince Maekar has duties to attend to, Daeron likes his wine better than anyone, Aemon is bookish and constantly busy, Daella is more a mother than a sister on the occasion. Aegon has been gone half of your life whilst Aerion…” The tyroshi woman shivered as she stroked Rhae’s strands of silver-gold, even in the heat of the room. 

“Aerion is cruel,” she finished. Finally Rhae had found someone who understood. 

“My sister was inhumanly beautiful, and blessed with such a gentle heart-- not unlike our Princess Daella. Kathrene was her name. She had the blue-green eyes of our mother, and the height of our father. Her beauty was kind and soft, so many wished for her hand in marriage, and other to be her companion-- to bask in the light of her looks and clever wit,” Lady Kiera began, after Rhae’s sobs quieted. 

“I was short, shorter than even my mother, and I had dull, brown eyes. Our hair was the only thing we shared, except the gentle nature, I suppose. My sister was kind and good to me, yet I began to resent her for all she received that I did not. Kathrene was the gem of our parents’ eyes, and I was forgotten in the shadows.” Lady Kiera’s voice sounded so weary with the pain of recollection. 

“But you are so beautiful, how did you not see?” Rhae asked her, genuinely.

“The same way that you do not, my sweetling. Simply because you do not look like Daella, does not make you dull or homely. You are a Valyrian beauty, and you shouldn’t ever forget. Promise me that you will not,” her good-cousin pleaded.  _ My mother did tell me not to lie, I cannot promise her, what I do not see.  _

“What happened to Kathrene?” Rhae asked, instead of replying.  _ Oh, no, _ Rhae thought as she saw the tears silently trickling down Kiera’s cheeks. A glazed glow graced her eyes, as she responded.

“She was two years older than me, so she wed first. He was a wealthy son of a highborn merchant, whom our father engaged in trade with. I met him once, he was arrogant and somewhat cruel. I begged our parents to relieve my sister of the match, yet they would hear none of it,” the Tyroshi woman said and had to pause, to take a steadying breath. 

“He got her with child soon after the wedding. My sister was elated to become a mother, she glowed with the light of motherhood. Yet I saw the bruises on her arms-- the red marks around her neck and dulled glow of her eyes. He was a monster,” Kiera spit out.

“Kathrene gave birth nine moons later, yet the fever afflicted her and she died within the week. The babe, my nephew lived, and he looked just like her.” Now it was Rhae’s turn to hug the woman tightly, to show her that she was not alone in the midst of her pain.  _ I cannot imagine losing Daella like that.  _

“He remarried just as my betrothal to Valarr was announced. Kathrene’s corpse was barely cold. I have not spoken to my parents since I departed for Westeros. I do send gifts to my nephew on the occasion and I pray to whatever gods there are, for him to not be as wicked as his father.” 

“I am so sorry, Kiera,” Rhae whispered but her words felt empty.  _ Nothing I say could ever soothe such a pain. I hope Valarr does a better job.  _

“It was a long time ago, my sweet and you had no part in it. All I am saying is that I do understand, but please do not blame your sister when she knows naught of it. I managed to be given the most kind and loving husband, you will be loved. Your time will come, my gentle dove, if only you wait for it.” Rhae held the Tyroshi woman tighter and felt Kiera kiss the top of her head, gently. The kind a mother would give to her child, if it was in pain. 

***

How Rhae’s heart tightened at the thought of that memory. For Kiera would have been the most wonderful mother to Valarr’s children, _if only the damned gods would have willed it so._ _She and Valarr did not deserve to lose son upon son, it killed them. It tore them apart until all that was left in their hearts, was grief and misery._ She saw little and less of Kiera these days, and she knew that was not the woman’s intentions but grief clung to her like a sheet of honey-- Rhae could not blame her for not wanting to fraternise in court. Valarr died during the Great Spring Sickness and left her no children but ashes. Kiera was wed to Rhae’s brother, Daeron and gave him a simple daughter… whom she named Vaella _. I suppose it was in Valarr’s memory._

_ My nose is straight, my lips plump, my face heart-shaped, _ Rhae thought as she gazed into the mirror.  _ I am not uncomely, but why do I feel such, then?  _ Her body was tall and lithe, she was easy on her feet, as a cat. Her hips were wide and her waist slim--  _ but not like Daella. My sweet sister is the goddess, not I.  _ A knock disrupted the princess from the pinching and prodding at her own skin. 

She moved to open it, forgetting that she had only half-removed the braids in her hair, and that it was sticking up like a bird’s nest at the moment.

“Just a moment,” she called out to the unknown visitor. Quickly, Rhae removed the last of her braids, and clipped the excess hair behind her head with a pin. With curly strands of stray silver-gold, framing her heart-shaped face, Rhae was the goddess of that moment. But she would never know. 

“Rhae,” a smooth voice greeted her as she opened the door. A tall man with golden hair, entwined with silver and eyes as dark as a purple sea, greeted her. 

“Aegon,” she breathed and her brother smiled boyishly as he embraced her. She felt him breathe in hard, in the crook of her neck. It made her whole body tingle. 

“How I missed you, little Rhae-- but you are not so little anymore, are you?” they had never had a moment to themselves, ever since he returned. He was always busy, performing duties and such, it had been so long since she felt his arms around her.  _ Yet.. his arms are no longer skinny and weak, but strong and warming. They feel right.  _

“Neither are you, brother,” she teased and Aegon laughed a thrilling laugh.

“No, no I suppose not,” he allowed with a warming smile. 

“Would you like to take a short stroll in the courtyard, before we depart for supper with father, Dae, Aemon and…” Aegon’s voice faltered and his gaze hardened. 

“Aerion,” Rhae finished for him, in a strangely eerie voice. He hates Aerion and I am not particularly fond of him either.

“Yes,” her brother said tersely as he offered his arm to her. She smiled, straightened her back and put her arm in the crook of his. 

“You look beautiful,” Aegon told her as they had descended the steps of stone, to the blazing courtyard outside. The smell of summer was in the air, with colorful flowers growing in the bushes, and apples in the trees. 

“Thank you,” Rhae smiled and looked beyond lovely, yet so unaware of it. _ Beautiful enough for you to ask father for my hand, I hope, _ she thought but she daren’t dream--lest they be stomped upon and reduced to gravel. 

“You look handsome as well,” Rhae countered with a coy smile and Aegon turned to her with that striking face of his.  _ He looks a true king.  _

“Thank you, sweet Rhae,” Aegon said as he kissed her cheek gently. The action made her heart swell. The way his purple eyes sparkled as he smiled, and the dimple of his right cheek exposed itself, his long, dark lashes touching his cheeks-- warmed Rhae’s heart like nothing else.  _ I want to have his children,  _ she thought. 

They sat down on a bench of stone and gazed out at the scenery. It was truly beautiful this time of year, with intricate flowers and meadows, blue skies and fresh air. Her dress of satin began to cling uncomfortably to her shoulders in the heat of the blistering sun, however. She did hope the cleavage it showed, would be somewhat enticing to Aegon.  _ Men think with their cocks most often, do they not? _

“What did you do during your travels? You must tell me all about it,” she said with a dazzling smile and a pale, slender hand to his shoulder. Aegon smiled. 

“We travelled everywhere, we ate where we could, and tried to find good shelter. We made acquaintance with the smallfolk and many of them are kind and generous beyond belief, Rhae-- even though they have little and less.”

“Sometimes,” he began in a wistful tone. “We would sleep underneath the stars, and I promise you, no one has ever seen such beauty until they do. When there is nothing but the deep quiet, and a blue sky, alight with the glow of such fierce stars. It frees you, it gives you a calm beyond belief.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Rhae said honestly. She would have wished to do such too, _ but father would never allow me to.  _

“I wish you could have been here,” he told her with a sad tone. 

“I was, in there. Or so I would wish to hope,” she said gently as she touched his heart and felt it beat, slow and steady. His chest was hard, adorned with muscles that she could feel-- even underneath the fabric of his black tunic. 

“Yes,” he said after a few moments and had a queer look in his eyes. “Yes. You were. All of you were. You were in the mud and the trees, the lavender flowers. Aemon was in the books, the scrolls and wise men. Daeron was in the bottom of my winecup and Dae… she was in the night-sky.” Rhae’s heart dropped at that, she knew his words weren’t supposed to feel so… final. _ I wished that for once, he could have left it at yes. That he could have left it at me. _

“You sound as if touring the land changed you entirely, I suppose it did. You were so young when you left,” Rhae said and willed the hole in her heart to quit its incessant clenching in her chest. 

“I was young, yes. But it taught me all I should ever need to know. Sometimes I wonder if Daeron and Aerion would have been different-- were they to have experienced what I have. To see what I saw.” Her brother’s eyes sparkled and turned a lovely, deep purple color as the sun shone on him. 

“What was it you saw?” Rhae asked, intrigued. He turned to her, and she wished to reach out and brush that stray, golden curl from his face. 

“I saw the poor, I saw the wealthy. I scoured armor, washed myself in rivers. I rode in the blistering sun, survived droughts, planted, flayed and cooked my own food. I heard what people thought of our family, of the rich and highborn. I learned that… maybe our family has done some things wrong-- that brings testament to several occurrences.” Her brother’s voice had taken on a wary and eerie tone.  _ What is it that has him so bothered? _

“What are we doing wrong, Egg? There is no pleasing everyone and the crown weighs heavy upon the shoulders of a king.” A frown caressed Rhae’s smooth, white skin.

“I learned during our travels that perhaps… we should not wed brother to sister any longer.”

“What do you mean?” Rhae asked in a surprisingly harsh tone. Her brother looked taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere.  _ We are Targaryens, not peasants. Ours is not the blood of the andals, but of Valyria of old. We are the last dragons and our blood must needs remain pure, does he not see? Does he not SEE? _

“It is not natural, Rhae. I witnessed some of the smallfolk that had been cursed with incestuous children, I saw their deformities, their madness. Even in animals, it is clear that it is neither healthy nor prosperous.” 

“Are you comparing us to smallfolk and hounds? Are you saying our good grandfather was an abomination?” Rhae grew enraged but perhaps not for the most righteous reasons.  _ He will never love me, _ she realised and it tore at her soul like nothing else could. 

“No, no-- but look at Aerion, look at my namesake, Aegon IV. Look at uncle Rhaegel and all of the Targaryens who went mad!” he feverishly tried to explain. Tears welled in Rhae’s eyes.  _ How dare he speak ill of dead uncle Rhaegel? He was not mad, he had been gentle and different--simple!  _ Rhae rose and snatched her arm away from his. 

“Need I remind you, that our great uncle, was not born of an incestuous union. Neither was Rhaegel or Aerion. Our mother was a Dayne, Rhaegel’s was a Martell. However, our grandfather was born of such unions-- was he mad?” she demanded.

“I... He--” Rhae did not have the patience to hear his reply. 

“Was he mad? Did he not smile and hold you as you were newly born? Did he not clean up your namesake’s grievous mistakes?” She felt the color heat her cheeks, but the fire was in her, and Egg had woken the dragon from its slumber.  _ They are both dead, do not dare speak ill when only their ghosts remain.  _

“Do not ever say such wicked things of Rhaegel. How dare you? Our uncle was sweet and gentle, he would not hurt a single fly, and he sang to you, me and Dae when we were babes. He loved us and I will not have you besmirch his dead body by calling him mad or an abomination!” She turned to take her leave.  _ I do not know what to say any longer… _

Aegon grabbed her arm, it felt surprisingly gentle for such strong hands.

“I am sorry if I have given offense, Rhae. Please believe me, I loved our grandfather, as I loved uncle Rhaegel. It was not meant to come out so harsh,” he pleaded. 

“We are Targaryens. We are not of the same blood as regular men,” she told him in a voice as hard as stone. 

“But I bled the same blood as them, I succumbed to the same chills, shared the same bread-- we are not so different, now without our dragons. All we do is look the part,” he told her gently. _ He will not change his mind. He is trying to make me change mine.  _

“It is tradition,” she said and her words would chill even the warmest man, to his very bones.

“Tradition is made to be broken,” her brother said as he shook his shoulders and looked down onto the green grass on the ground. 

“Those words will surely come to haunt you in some way or another,” she told him. He released his grip on her arm and met her eyes. 

“Maybe they will,” he allowed. “But I will deal with such matters then, if they ever come to pass.” Rhae nodded and began walking away, until she felt a warm presence engulf her. She cursed her treacherous body for relaxing into it, for craving  _ more _ .

“I am sorry,” he whispered as he held onto her. “I did not mean to return and have you wroth with me, forgive me for giving any offence, Rhae. I love you, you are my sister,” he told her.  _ Aye, and male Targaryens put their cocks into those, yet you refuse me.  _ Bitter tears in lavender eyes burned behind brown eyelashes. Yet… she breathed in his scent and found her heart longing for it.  _ I do not wish to be angry with him any more, than he does me. _ She kissed his cheek but wished it would have been his lips. 

“I still do not agree with you,” she told him with a piercing gaze. He smiled sadly.

“Would you be my Rhae, if you did?” he asked and a humorless laugh escaped her lips. 

“No. I suppose not.” Then they walked, arm in arm, to supper. 

Supper was a strange affair, with their father, Aemon, Daella, Aerion, Aegon and Rhae present. Neither Kiera nor Daeron or Vaella were present.  _ Daeron is most like out drinking or whoring, Vaella must be sleeping and Kiera… she must not wish to attend.  _

It began with their father, Maekar greeting his returned son with a terse clap to the back and strained smile.  _ We are late,  _ Rhae realised.

“You have been missed, my son.” 

“Yes,” Aerion smiled ferally as he cut at his sausage without letting his gaze leave Aegon. 

“And how you have grown, brother. I always used to think you were more woman than man, but look at you now,” he continued wickedly and somehow, she saw something in Aegon change.  _ He looked as if carved out of stone  _

“Brother,” Daella greeted, and Aemon stood up with a gentle smile. 

“Egg,” he called in his wise voice. Aegon smiled but it did not look true.  _ Aerion spoiled his spirits, just as he intended.  _ Then they all sat down and continued their meals. The mutton was exquisite, and so was the wine along with the cherry pie. 

“So, brother,” Aerion began maliciously and both Rhae, Daella and Aemon gazed at each other warily. Their father seemed to make no note of the sudden change in atmosphere. 

“What was it you learned, consorting with peasants and such?” it was mockery, Rhae knew. 

“Much and more, Aerion,” Aegon said as he pretended to be unmoved. 

“Found any wife yet? Or did you get a peasant with child? Imagine that, a Targaryen peasant!” Aerion laughed wildly, yet none of the others found it the least amusing. Maekar shushed his oldest with only a hard glance. 

“No.” Egg’s voice was final. 

“Hmm,” Aerion said as he chewed a piece of mutton. Rhae watched as his sharp jaw flexed and wondered how someone could be so beautiful, yet so cruel, conceited and vain. _ Aerion is the man you wish to fuck you hard and fast, but will ruin it all, if he utters a single word.  _

“Perhaps it is time. You are not getting any younger,” Aerion finished with mockery lacing his words. 

“Or mayhaps you have not even bedded a woman yet? Perhaps we should take a trip down to the Street Of Sil-”

“-Enough!” Maekar roared with a ferocity. “I will hear no more of your cruel japes, Aerion.” Their father’s tone of voice frightened even Aemon, and Aerion looked taken aback.  _ He thinks that because he is older now, that our father cannot smack any sort of sense into him.  _ Their father had never struck them, he left that to the whipping boys and girls-- but she believed he had been close once or twice, with his second oldest. 

The remainder of dinner passed with small, polite conversation. Even Aerion’s presence had been dulled from their father’s outburst. Rhae thanked the gods when it was over, for it had been difficult to endure, even for her. She noticed the strange gaze that Daella threw at her.  _ She knows me too well. She knows that something is amiss. _ Yet the thought struck our princess, that maybe Daella had been aware of Aegon’s inclinations, and wanted to preserve her sister’s heart, for as long as she could.  _ Aemon will have something wise to say. His words will soothe this ache.  _

 

She found her older brother in the library, as was where he was most like to be. She would not call Aemon uncomely, yet he had not inherited the best of his parents. He was tall, with hair more silver than gold, and the dark, violet eyes of their father. Yet his nose was a bit crooked, his lips small and his face not as defined as Egg’s and Aerion’s was.  _ But he is the blood of the dragon, and still more handsome than many a men.  _

“Rhae,” he greeted in a soft voice. She smiled, for his very presence calmed her. 

“Aemon,” she replied. He gazed at her for a few moments. 

“What brings you here, child?” Rhaelle giggled. 

“You are not that much older than me, Aemon,” she chided. 

“You will always be my little Rhae.” His smile warmed her and filled her with love.  _ If there was ever one to love me undonditionally, no matter what I did, it is Aemon. _

He patted the empty chair next to him, Rhae sat down and began fiddling with her rings. 

“What has you so unnerved, little one?” Aemon looked worried and Rhae desperately wished to relieve him of them. _ It is nothing important, _ she thought. Then she told him,

“You will think it childish and of little consequence,” she admitted with a shrug of her shoulders. The look in his eyes remained friendly and learned.

“You are young, even if it does not seem of great consequence in a few years--it feels like it now, and you should not invalidate yourself, so. Growing pains, our uncle Baelor was wont to call it.” 

“Aegon thinks that incestuous unions are wrong,” Rhae blurted out and then wished she hadn’t. Aemon looked taken aback.  _ He did not expect this.  _

“Do you think so, Rhae?” her brother asked, curiously. 

“No..I..” her words would not form and she felt her cheeks redden. Her knowledgeable brother understood. 

“Ah,” he began in a clipped tone. “You love him, do you not? Yet he is your brother and you are his sister,” Aemon said, almost as if it was to himself. 

“We are Targaryen,” she said weakly. Aemon smiled sadly at that. 

“Our Aegon is as much Targaryen as he is smallfolk. He grew up away from home and he saw the world. As real and raw as it is. It is only natural that he formed opinions, that would differ from ours, who have never known a hungry belly in our life, or an assault or drought.” His words were true, Rhae knew.  _ That does not mean I want to believe them.  _

“Do you believe it is? He said it is why some Targaryens go mad.” 

“It is a theory, yes. But then you must think of all the ones that did not go mad. Consider if they outweigh the others. There are bad seeds in every house and family, not only the Targaryens. I neither approve of nor condemn his views.”  _ Oh, Aemon. Always the wise one.  _

A gentle hand brushed her shoulder and she began weeping. Aemon held her like he used to, when she was a girl and had scraped her knee or fallen from her horse.  _ Daeron would offer me some wine and stroke my hair. Aerion would laugh, or worse, press the wound, with cruel fingers. Aemon would hold me tight, until I fell asleep. Daella would be there when I woke. _ She could not for the life of her, remember what Aegon had done.

“But I love him,” she cried out brokenly, hurting like only a young woman could. 

“Yes. I know.” soft lips touched her forehead, gently and a slender hand combed through her silver-gold locks. 

“He loves you, too. Not in the way that you may crave, but he does. You must hold on to that when you feel hopeless. A weaker form of love, is better than none at all.” She knew better than to come to Aemon, for soothing lies.  _ He tells the hard truth, in hopes that it helps us later in life. He knows sweetly told lies will do more harm than good.  _

“But I want to wed him, to carry his babes and sing to them,” she told him tearfully.  _ A future that will never be,  _ both of them knew. 

“You will wed and carry babes within you, that you will give life. You shall cradle them to your chest, and sing them songs of old Valyria. But it will not be with Egg, or any of your brothers. It will hurt, oh yes it will— for loving always does. Nevertheless, it will recede, until all it becomes is a dulling memory, that grows ever fainter with time.” His sensible words reached her in a way Daella’s never could. 

“I should count myself fortunate it was not to Aerion, shouldn’t I?” she asked with a snort. Aemon turned wary in the glow of the night…  _ he looks alarmed. Does Aerion frighten even him? _

“Oh, yes. Yes you should, my sweet Rhae. Be glad our father is more merciful than to bestow that upon you.”

“He must know what Aerion is, he must always have known,” she whispered to her brother. 

“Perhaps,” her brother allowed. “Yet Aerion is all smiles and courtesy around our father. He must have suspected, he has seen proof of it, maybe father refuses to see what will hurt him. To acknowledge your child as a monster, is no easy thing, Rhae. They were once the sweet babe you held in your arms. A father and mother will always see that, no matter how horrid the actions of their children. Such is the love of a parent. Some will call it a curse, others a blessing. I call it both, yet I shall never know.” 

***

Her brother was correct, as he was wont to be. Rhae did wed. A few moons after that day with Aegon, their father announced her betrothal to Ser Terron Lannister, a brother to the lord of Lannister-- eleven years her senior. Lord Terron had been handsome and strong, with gold for hair and eyes like the clearest of emeralds. Yet he was also kind to Rhae and treated her gently. He would never raise his hand to her, barely ever his voice and he loved her. Within time, she learned to love him as well. 

Terron loved her the way a man should, yet the first few moons of her marriage; she could not help but close her eyes and pretend that it was golden locks streaked with silver, that she grasped so fiercely. Or that green eyes were somehow turned into dark purple ones, that looked almost black in the dark of their chambers. Once she almost slipped and called for a name she knew was forbidden.  _ Egg, Egg, Egg, Aegon. _ It was not for her to call, any longer.

She bore him two sons and a daughter, the last whom she named herself. Rhae sang to them and swaddled them at her chest. She loved them, as she learned to love her husband. They both chose their first one’s name together. Tyron, he was called. Their second son was named Tyrek and their sweet daughter was called Daenys. She did it to honor her sweet sister, who was wed off to the isle of Tarth.  _ I hope she is happy. _ They corresponded but it was still not the same. 

Tyrek and Tyron inherited their father’s eyes, but the silver-gold hair of the Targaryens. Both grew into handsome men and stole the hearts of every maiden they happened upon. Rhae’s sweet treasure, Daenys, was a Lannister beauty, with the lavender eyes and delicate features of her mother. Her hair was spun gold. Tyrek and Tyron were both fiercely protective over their cub of a sister, they would not let anything harm her. Rhae’s family brought her pride. She had done well. _ I did well, with the cards that I was dealt.  _

Aemon was right. As time passed, her love for Aegon receded. From a heartbreaking pain, it turned into a throbbing one, then it dulled and now… it was a mere memory, a faint recollection of a youth in a different time. Aegon became king and chose a woman he loved. That decision would come to haunt his family.

 Indeed, it would all end in Fire and Blood.


	20. It has been a loveless year, and many more are to come.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiera weds her second husband; Daeron Targaryen. They called him ''the drunken.''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll, guys. Here's another chapter that contains Kiera of Tyrosh and her marriage to Maekar's oldest son. 
> 
> I've had many lovely suggestions of pairings, and I will surely get to them; I just had to crank this one out, because I had this idea of what it would be like for Kiera to wed Daeron. 
> 
> I'm sorry if the timelines are a little fucked up btw, but as i've explained; they're estimated and not really known; which gives me a little bit of a headache when writing, so I usually round and maybe change it a bit. Nothing that will be of great consequence to how their lives would play out, though. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy, and please leave a kudos if you did! Leave a comment with suggestions, or whatever you thought. I enjoy reading your comments :)
> 
> Some of you are really too kind to me, all I do is write some words in a document.  
> Anyway, I hope that you all know that It truly means a lot to me :)

 

 

 

 

The smooth fabric of her dress flowed like a river of water in her hands.  _ Beautiful, _ she thought and it was. The white dress clung to her elegantly, and complimented her slightly tanned complexion.  _ Smile, _ she told herself but it only came out as a grimace. _ I did not ever think I would wed again… yet here I am.  _

Her Valarr had perished during the Great Spring Sickness and left her a widow of nine-and-ten-- childless and alone. Not even his kind brother Matarys, had been spared the sickness.  _ Somehow I am still here standing. It is queer, how the gods work. _ Now, a year later, she was here, being made ready to wed another prince. _ Daeron the drunken, they call him. His two greatest interests entail whoring and drinking himself to an early grave. _ Kiera had only spent little time with her husband-to-be, yet he had been kind to her. Gentle.  _ I thank the gods it was not Aerion. _

“How beautiful you look, m’lady,” the servant said with a bow. Kiera turned around and forced a kind smile to grace her lips.

“You are too kind.” The servant’s eyes grew as big as saucers.  _ She must never have been spoken to gently, by a highborn before. She is as much a person as I am, what good would it do for me to be cruel?  _

“You look a goddess, Tis true,” blue eyes met red-brown and Kiera touched the young woman’s shoulder. 

“I shan’t forget your words, kind girl.” The servant smiled and continued to lace her dress from behind. Kiera willed thoughts of her first wedding to begone. It only gave her a dark pain and a clouding misery, to reminisce. 

When all was said and done, she was met with her good-father to be, Maekar.

“I am here to escort you, my lady,” he told her gruffly as he offered his arm. Kiera nodded and entwined hers with his-- together they walked, to her new doom. The beginning of the walk throughout the keep was silent, but Maekar spoke. 

“How are you faring?” it was almost gentle,  _ almost thoughtful.  _

“Well, my prince,” she said courteously, but he turned and looked at her, with piercing violet eyes that looked into the empty parts of her.

“You miss him,” he acknowledged. Kiera straightened her back and continued looking forward. 

“Yes,” she allowed as her eyes grew misty. Prince Maekar sighed. 

“We all do. There was great promise in the young Valarr. Sweet Matarys as well, but they are gone.”

“And the gods left us,” she spoke. 

“And the gods left us,” he repeated, wearily. She knew that he had been the one to deal the final killing blow to his brother.  _ He did not mean to, I am sure. My good-father to be was fervent in Valarr’s succession. Perhaps to make peace with himself, for the brother he had slain, the father to Valarr. All of them are gone now.  _

When they reached the pillars, they had only a few stairwells to descend, until the carriages would take them to the sept of Baelor.

“I know Daeron is not what any woman such as you would wish to have for a husband, yet he is good. He will not treat you cruelly, I promise you that.” Maekar told her and she nodded. _ I am doing my duty. The crown needs Tyrosh on their side and not the Blackfyres’.   _

“Thank you,” she told him genuinely and he nodded tersely. 

Suddenly they were by the carriage and Maekar took his leave. He was to travel with his own family. There were offers by ladies to accompany her in the carriage; yet she declined. She wished to be alone, to make peace with her dead husband, with her dead good-brother and her dead children.  _ I am not betraying you, _ she promised but her words were the swaying wind.

The sound of the coachman urging the horses forward, brought her back to her reality. A weary sigh escaped her lips, and she wished deeply to just lay down and weep-- yet she could not arrive tear-stained and messy at her own wedding.  _ I would not shame Daeron or his family, so. _ Our Kiera was so tired that she felt it deeply within her soul.  _ All the sons I lost, the husband who swore that he would never leave me, but took his last breaths, with his head in my lap. _

“Oh, Valarr. I am so sorry,” she whispered and forced the tears to stay within her eyes.

“I did not mean for it to be like this. You were supposed to live, so were our sons. I do not know when it all went so horribly wrong,” she whispered into the empty coach. 

“Please do not hold this against me. I love you, it will always be you.” It felt almost comforting, peaceful-- after she had gotten the words out. An overpowering feeling of utter calm took hold of her body, it felt like her dead husband’s comforting embraces. She wished that Valarr had heard her words, that he forgave her for what she was about to do.  _ I made my peace.  _ Which was all that she could do, in the end. 

“I will never forget the life I had, or our sweet sons. Please tell me that you are with them, tell me that you are all happy and content.”

“Matarys, my sweet,” she whispered out and the lump in her throat threatened to make her erupt into sobs.  _ You were too young to die. Much too young, I am so sorry.  _

“Take care of my family, Matarys. We will all meet again, I give you my word. We shall all be happy then.” 

Then the coach came to a halt and the door was opened by Rhae and Daella.  _ They look too worried. You should not worry for me, so, my gentle swans. _

“Are you alright, Kiera?” the soft and most fragile of the two, Rhae asked.  _ One day I will be. But that is not today.  _

“Of course,” Kiera said with a false smile. Rhae moved to embrace her.

“Please do not be sad, good-sister,” she whispered and Kiera’s heart clenched painfully. The youngest of Maekar’s children had looked to Kiera as something akin to a gentle mother,  _ ever since I told her of Kathrene, so long ago.  _

“I am not sad, little dove. You should not worry so much for me,” Kiera whispered back with a gentle stroke to Rhae’s back and and stood on her toes, to kiss the young princess’s head.

“Of course I worry. Your happiness is paramount to me,” her little good-sister said.  _ You are not so little anymore, my Rhae. _ Kiera then retreated from the embrace and brushed some dirt, that was not really there, off of her dress. 

“Come on, my doves. I am to be wed,” she said with a strength to her voice. _I need to be strong for them, I cannot waver or behave like crazed widow._ _The court already thinks less of me, because of my Tyroshi heritage. I shan’t give them reason to whisper more. This is my duty, and I shall perform it._

She entered the sept and was amazed to see all the lords and ladies present. _ Here to see a woman they know not, wed. _ Somehow that brought a queer laugh to the Tyroshi woman’s lips.

“What is it?” Daella asked and Kiera smiled gently.

“All these people are here to see a stranger wed. It is a bit humorous, is it not?” Daella took a look at the crowd, and laughed as well.

“I suppose it is,” she agreed. 

The princesses escorted her all the way to the altar, and Kiera pretended it was only them there, and not all of these strangers that she did not know. Daeron was there, with his sandy brown hair-- clean shaven. He looked to be shaking, almost leaning on his father. She saw him whisper something to Maekar, and his father left shortly, to return with a small goblet of what she assumed was wine. Daeron thanked his father and drank it as if it was water. Maekar looked at his son with concern.

Somewhere along the lines of Kiera stepping in front of the altar, the princesses had disappeared and it was only Daeron and Kiera in front of each other. The septon stood to ther side and was preparing to bless them. _ He looks a bit unwell, with that yellowish tone to his skin and tired eyes. Yet they look gentle, a comforting plum instead of the cruel, pale ones of Aerion. _

“Good day, my lady,” Daeron smiled and she could smell the Arbor gold on his breath.

“Good day to you as well, my prince,” she smiled but something felt broken within her.  _ Something that will never be mended, _ Kiera predicted.

“You look beautiful,” he told her with no falseness in his voice. _ He looks handsome as well, besides his sickly, sallow skin.  _

“And you look striking as well,” she told him and he laughed. 

“I have been called many things, yet striking has surprisingly never been one of them, my lady.”  Then they were wed, after the septon had said his long prayers, blessed them and entwined their hands with silken rope. 

“You may kiss your bride, to bind your soul to hers, for as long as you both shall live,” the septon told them and the crowd roared. Daeron’s gentle eyes searched hers, for any hint of disgust or repulsion.  _ They must look as blank as the wall of my chambers. As the white of that empty crib belonging to Aeron. _ Kiera decided to soothe his troubled thoughts by leaning in, then she felt his lips on hers. For the first time since Valarr’s death. It hurt her, how her treacherous body did not find it repulsing, but craved something more.

His kiss was tender, soft and strangely passionate. It brought her a sense of safety, a promise that all would be alright. Then they broke apart, and the ceremony was done. The roaring of the crowd grew louder but Kiera was in a daze. Somehow Daeron turned to Valarr and she touched his face with a fervent smile.

“All will be well, I told you,” Valarr spoke and his stormy eyes were still as beautiful as she recalled, she embraced him and-- 

“Kiera?” she heard a panicked voice ask her. They were in the shadow of the sept, hidden by statues of the gods-- in a few moments they would tour through King’s Landing, back to the Red Keep, where the feast would be held. A light shake shook her out of her daze and she saw worried, plum eyes looking at her, from afar she could see her good-father walking toward them in long strides.  _ What happened? Oh, no. What did I do? _

“What happened, Daeron?” she asked panicked and he sighed in relief.

“You scared me. You almost collapsed in my arms and then you whispered something of how all would be well.”

“Did anyone see?” the thought of the court bearing witness to her humiliating failure, was almost too much to face.  _ I was doing so well, _ she thought sadly. 

“No, It looked as if I was simply embracing you. Rest assured, wife,” he told her with a perplexed look. Then Maekar arrived and brusquely asked what had passed.

“My wife was simply fatigued,” Daeron said but it was clear that Maekar barely believed his son’s lies.  _ He has beared witness to too many of them, to not be able to tell which one is the truth.  _

“Are you alright, my lady?” Maekar asked and Kiera nodded.  _ I did not fail you, I promise. I wed your son, I did my part-- please set me free. Set me FREE, _ feverish thoughts festered within her. 

The feast felt dull to Kiera and she could barely stomach any food. She had not been bedded for over a year’s turn, but the time had come for her to be relieved of that. She wished for Valarr to ride through those doors, atop a white palfrey, with their sons and Matarys-- to free her.  _ They are all dead, you foolish woman. Every single one of them,  _ she chided herself. Kiera never knew why the gods left her alive. _ I should have gotten ill as well-- I held Valarr when he retched and wailed, as his fever cooked him from the inside and he begged for me to relieve him of his pain. I kissed his head and his cracked lips. But the Stranger never came for me. I did not belong to his list, how come my sons, Valarr and the young Matarys did, then? Tell me. TELL ME! _

Her new husband was on his sixth or sixtieth cup of Dornish Red, Kiera was on her third.  _ We must be at least a little drunk to get through this, and he knows. Well, he knows the wine.  _ Lady Kiera noticed that Daeron’s hair was lighter than Valarr’s, it looked more blonde than brown. His eyes were not a raging storm, but a soft plum brandy. Her former husband’s lips had been plumper, and had a straight nose. Daeron’s nose was a bit crooked,  _ from someone breaking it, perhaps _ , Kiera pondered.

Suddenly her good-father called for the bedding and Kiera froze.  _ Not again, _ she thought. Only Valarr’s kind words had helped her through it the first time. It never seized to amaze the Tyroshi woman, how such a crude and shameful ceremony was considered tradition. It was vile, and even Valarr had agreed. She did not know what level of comfort she would be able to expect from her new husband.  _ He will most like be passed out and snoring as we reach the bedchamber. _ A prospect like that would most like had angered a young maiden on her wedding day, but to Kiera, it sounded like a kindness.

As the filthy hands of the drunken lords tore at her beautiful dress and jewels, Kiera dreamed herself away. She was there, but not truly. When she looked up at the ceiling, her glazed red-brown eyes saw the family she and Valarr never got to have. Vaegon with Kiera’s dark locks and Valarr’s stormy eyes. Her little Aeron with kind, green-brown eyes, black hair adorned with its streak of pure silver. Even Matarys was there, standing tall with young, blue eyes and brown hair streaked with silver-gold. Forever young, they would be. They would not wizen with age, but instead remain as they were, the very eve they passed. _ I will join them an old crone, it seems. Yet I will join them nonetheless. _

She felt herself being dropped onto a soft, feathered bed and sighed gently. It was over, and it had not been as horrid as the first time. _ Perhaps because I am too old and hardened to worry over over these things. The woman I was is not who I am. She lived a different life, and when her husband died, so did she. I am something else entirely, now.  _ The Ladies took their sweet time with Daeron, but he arrived shortly after Kiera did--both being as naked as their namedays.

“Oh, right,” Daeron said as he looked at her. It was as if he did not realise he was naked, or that he needed to perform his husbandly duty. Kiera looked down. Although a young woman of nine-and-ten, Kiera had bore sons and her body beared the marks. She was still slim, but red and white marks adorned the sides of her belly and thighs.  _ Valarr used to kiss each and every one of them, whilst telling me how proud he was of me. _ The thought brought the sadness, that never truly left her, back to the surface of her heart.

Daeron was lean, not as strong as Valarr had been, but still he bore a certain strength. His body was softer and gentler. A man of twenty, Daeron was of an age with her. He was comely, save for the yellowish tinge to his skin, that unnerved her. His jaw was sharp, but he was not as beautiful as Valarr had been.  _ Mayhaps I judge him too harshly, to a dead man whom he’ll never be able to compare. _

“You look beautiful, my lady,” Daeron said as he gently removed the hairpins from her hair and freed her long, raven-colored waves.

“Thank you,” she smiled but it did not quite reach her eyes and he noticed, yet spoke no word of it. He stroked her cheek and then moved to fill a goblet of wine with the pitcher. 

“I am sorry for the misery you have lived through,” he began as he took a sip of the wine and frowned. “Sour, but drinkable,” he interjected with a shrug.

“They did not call Valarr the brave for naught, as they do not call me the drunken for naught. It is the truth, I am a drunk and you have surely noticed, but you are too well-bred to say a word of it.” He leaned against the wooden table and she cursed her body for even craving him the slightest bit. 

“I dream, but not like you. My dreams are true and they frighten me. I cannot ever escape them, so the best I can do is dull my worries and senses with ale and wine. I did not ask for this cursed gift, but I received it anyway. Now I drink too much, to ever be without.” His words spoke to her and made sense. There were layers to him, just like with anyone else.  _ They call him a drunk, but if they saw what he sees, would they not numb it with wine and ale, for it to ease? _

“I am sorry you had to wed me, but it was needed. Father knows best, after all,” he said with a small laugh. Then he turned serious.

“I have to bed you until I beget a child on you, father has made that abundantly clear. So many Targaryens have perished and new ones are needed. To quench rebellions and be spares. You can call me Valarr or whatever name you wish, it will not wound my pride or put a slight on my manly honor-- I barely have any.” Kiera’s gaze burned into him and she found herself being...thankful.  _ It could have been worse. It could have been Aerion.  _

“Though I do not wish to hurt you. You will never come to love me, I know. Neither will I ever be able to give you such. I was not made to love, I am afraid. No, no. Daeron of house Targaryen was made to dream, drink and whore. That is the sad truth,” he smiled sadly.

“I will not ever grow old. I have seen it. So I fear you shall be widowed again. Sadly, I cannot give you an exact proximity of time.” _ He seems so morbidly at peace with his own death. _

Kiera frowned. Daeron looked as if he was recalling his surroundings, yet again.

“Oh, now where was I? Please have patience with some of this drunken rambling,” he smiled but it looked tired. _ He looks so weary of life, but he is too young to be. _

“I suppose we should be getting on with this, should we not?” he asked and Kiera nodded.  _ Duty demands it.  _

He sat down on the bed and stroked her shoulder, tenderly.

“I will not do it often, perhaps once every moon. I shall content myself with whores and hands until then. Once you birth me the child that our family craves, I shan’t ever touch you again, unless you tell me to. Please forgive me,” his words were knowing and tender.  _ Has Rhae told him anything?  _

Then he leaned in and kissed her, it was sloppy and messy, he seemed five seconds from falling to the floor in a heap, so she laid him on the bed and got on top of him. She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of Valarr, of his strong hands and sweet words. Somewhere outside, in the stormy night, an owl was heard hooting in its nest.

Daeron was breathing heavily, but when she used her hands to help him enter her, she found that he was soft.  _ What do I even say? _ Daeron seemed to regain some sort of coherence and looked at her apologetically.

“It is the wine, my lady. This happens sometimes, you simply have to-”

“Do not worry,” she said and kissed him as she helped him on his way. It felt like she was betraying Valarr, somehow.  _ I am sorry,  _ she thought as a tear escaped her eyes of the earth, whilst she guided her new husband inside of her. 

He did not last long, and perhaps that was a mercy. With a few incoherent grunts, he spilled his seed inside of her, but she had somehow forgotten how it was to be bedded. When Valarr died, all those feelings perished as well, but now they had awoken.  _ Begone with you,  _ she pleaded with her body but it demanded her to continue, so after a few short moments, she found her release to.

Then she wept. Oh, how she wept. Daeron had almost fallen asleep, yet he heard her silent sobs, felt her shake and shiver.  _ It is better than to dream,  _ he told himself. Then the drunken prince cradled the small, delicate woman to his chest and kissed her head. He stroked her hair, as he used to stroke Rhae and Daella’s when they were to sleep, or had harmed themselves.

“It will not always feel as if you are betraying him,” he whispered.

“How would you know,” she replied scornfully and then began apologising for her outburst.

“Because he was my cousin, as well as your husband, Kiera. How do you think it feels to stick my cock in Valarr’s wife? He was more of a brother to me than Aerion ever was.”  _ He lost as well, _ she realised.  _ Valarr was his cousin, Matarys, too. _

“It feels good to fuck, it does. But your heart will always remain Valarr’s, and mine is somewhere in a ditch, no doubt,” he smiled ruefully.

“Do not blame yourself, Valarr would not have. Enjoy the pleasure while it lasts-- otherwise only the sorrow remains. You are far too young to have such pain in your heart.” Then they both fell asleep, with Kiera weeping in his arms until she fell into the arms of slumber. No one could say when Daeron fell asleep, or if he even did.

***

Twelve years later, and Kiera finally birthed a child that lived. 

“What shall we name her?” she asked Daeron but he shrugged and took a sip of wine.

“She is your daughter as much as mine, make it sound a little Targaryen and father will no doubt be pleased.” Her baby cooed softly in her arms and it tore at Kiera, because this was what she was supposed to have shared with Valarr. Their sons should have been as living and gentle as the daughter in her arms. 

“Vaella, I think,” she said as she looked to Daeron for confirmation. Kiera was older now, one-and-thirty, whilst Daeron was about to reach his second-and-thirtieth nameday. His purple eyes looked at her warmly.

“Yes. I think that suits her. Vaella for Valarr, if I am not mistaken?” he asked Kiera. 

“He deserved this,” she told Daeron, and he smiled sadly. 

“Yes. That, he did.” 

Her daughter opened her eyes, the way Aeron and Vaegon and all the others never did.

“They are your eyes,” she told him and he reached out a finger to stroke their newborn’s cheek. 

“They are,” he agreed. “But she has your hair,” he continued by pointing at the soft, black tufts that grew out of Vaella’s head. 

“She is so gentle, she has barely cried at all,” Kiera told him, amazed.  _ My beautiful, sweet daughter. I won’t let anything harm you. I shall keep you safe, at the cost of my own life. _

“Yes. A gentle dragon was what I saw in my dream,” he told her, but the dragon had also been slower than normal, sweet but it was torn apart by the other, fierce ones. He had watched as the rightful prey of the gentle dragon, was stolen from her and awarded to another, a dragon with green and white swirls. He would not tell Kiera, of that part in his dreams. 

“We love you, my little one,” she whispered as she kissed the head of Vaella. The babe looked at her mother, with deep, purple eyes and Kiera swore that she saw her smile.

Kiera never came to truly love Daeron, yet she had grown as comfortable as she could, with him. She knew that he bedded his whores and drank his wine, but was not averse to his touches once every moon. All she did was visit the maester for ointments to prevent the pox and such fouleries that her husband may have brought home.

Their daughter grew to be simple-minded, sweet and gentle but not clever. She was Kiera’s treasure, however, and both parents loved her dearly. Daeron would die young, as he told his wife many years before their daughter’s birth. He was thirty-and-eight at the time of his death, by contracting the pox from a whore.

Such was the end of Kiera and Daeron’s story.

 


	21. What if what is wrong, is really, right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jena Dondarrion deals with prejudice and a dysfunctional family. We follow her through her wedding to Baelor Breakspear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, i'm back and it's a long one! I really liked making a backstory up and having the main deal with conflicting feelings and a broken childhood. 
> 
> I haven't edited this, and you probably won't see another chapter for a few days because... a sis failed some parts of my german test and have to retake it. Lol wish me luck because i'm trash at german, haha. 
> 
> The end... I don't know what happened in the end of this chapter and apologise sincerely for the way pepper spray in your eyes, would make you cringe less than reading that. Lmao i'll leave now. 
> 
> This is trash, might delete later ngl lol.
> 
> Goodnight :)

 

 

 

Jena never understood why her father despised the Dornish so much. Their crown-prince along with the other princes, had been half-Dornish on their mother’s side. _Our seat is even located north of Dorne, in the Dornish marches._ _Although we have sworn fealty to House Baratheon of Storm’s End, are we not Dornish, if we live in Dorne?_ Jena had made the mistake of asking her lord-father that very question, during supper, once, when she had been a girl of two-and-ten.

_“Those damned savage, wanton Dornishmen! All they do is undermine and hide behind their puny titles. Prince, ha! We have but the Targaryen princes,” her lord-father said after he had heard their brother discussing politics._

_“But father, are we not Dornish as well? Since we live in the north of Dorne," young Jena, freshly flowered, had asked curiously. Her father had grown so red, that she suspected he_ _might have choked on the boar._

_“We will never be one of those savages, Jena!” her father growled out, with spittle sticking to his brown moustache. “We are Stormlanders, and damn you, if you should ever forget!” he continued and she cowered in her chair. Her mother and brother looked at her with somber, pitiful gazes, for today; she had been the one to receive her father’s ire._

_“Okay, father,” she choked out, behind teary blue eyes, shining like blue stars._

_Icy, blue eyes looked her over, analyzing her very being._

_“You are excused, Jena-- clean yourself up,” he began in disgust. “I will not have my daughter be known as a weakling. Or a Dornish sympathiser, for that matter,” he finished and looked away. Jena scurried off to her chambers, and she wept. Only the darkness and moonlight bore witness to her pain, that eve. The screeching wind enveloped her, like the softest quilt and beckoned her heart to mend itself._

Four years later, her father had made Jena aware of her betrothal. By then she had grown, from a spindly, skinny girl with knobbly knees, to a beautiful young woman, with light, sandy brown hair and striking blue eyes. Her hips had widened as she had flowered, her chest began to fill out her gowns and she quickly needed new ones made. Many squires had made Jena aware of their admiration of the beautiful, sweet Jena of house Dondarrion. She was highborn, however. _I have only given them a few of my kisses, they shall never have what is between my legs; or father will surely find out and have me sent to the silent sisters._

Eight moons had passed since her father told her that she was to be wed to the crown-prince, and be the future queen. Young Jena had been in a state of shock, when he told her.

_“Us? Me?” she asked her father in utter confusion._

_“Yes, you! Us!” he said with an ambitious smile._

_“But we are not a great house, why not a woman of house Velaryon?” Jena asked before she had time to mull over her thoughts. It had been wrong to phrase it like that, she knew. Her father had been proud and quick to be slighted, even from innocent questions, asked by his own blood. He grasped Jena’s hand so hard that tears welled up. She refused to cry, she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had hurt her._

_“We might not be big, but we are great. A union between house Dondarrion and the crown has been long overdue. Do not question things that you will never understand. You are a woman, you must needs know your place, or surely the crown-prince will remind you of it. They are violent, those Dornishmen,” her father said with his raspy voice and cruel eyes. She wondered why he could not always remain kind. His mood shifted like the weather on Dragonstone._

Today she was seven-and-ten, a year younger than the crown-prince himself. The Targaryens were famed for their unworldly features and their ability to ride dragons. The latter was not something they were able to boast anymore, yet the silver-gold hair and purple eyes remained as ethereal as it did hundreds of years ago. Baelor was different, however. _They say he favors his mother, and does not look a Targaryen for true._

“Jena,” her mother told her daughter with a kind voice. Jena’s attention was brought back to reality, as her thoughts had drifted between the past and what the future held.

“Yes?” Jena asked sweetly and her mother looked at her with the same eyes of her daughter.

“I asked if you were excited for your marriage,” the Lady of Dondarrion repeated. _I do not know. I hope he is kind and treats me gentler than father treats you._

“Yes, mother,” she smiled from opposite the carriage. They were travelling to King’s Landing, and had been for a week now. It was for her wedding, that would take place in seven days time. They would arrive the night before, long enough to sup with her husband-to-be and her good-family-to-be. Her mother took hold of Jena’s hand, gently and a kind look was in her eyes.

“You will learn to care for him, my sweet. They say he is everything that is to be wished in a man.” _Everything that father is not, then._

“I am happy, mother. Believe it, please. I will be queen.”

***

She had to place a hand on her chest, to steady her breath, when she first laid her eyes upon him. He looked so different from all of his siblings. _Not in a bad way,_ she caught herself thinking.

“Take a seat,” her father hissed at her and pinched her calf, when she realised that she was still standing straight. Her betrothed and his family was looking at her most curiously. _Oh, no. He must think I am horrified by him._

“She is weary from travel,” her father said apologetically “almost caught the chill on our way,” he continued to lie easily. The Dornish queen frowned.

“Are you better now, my girl? It would be cruel of the gods to make you ill so close to your wedding,” Mariah Martell said with a light tilt to her words. It sounded almost like a song. _I could listen to her speak for days._ Jena did not think that the queen looked at all, what her father had described. _She is beautiful, with that long, dark hair, beige skin and dark eyes. She looks kind, warm like the very sun on her sigil._

“Oh yes, My Queen. It feels good to be on solid ground, once again,” Jena smiled and the queen returned it.

“Very well,” King Daeron smiled. “Let us eat,” he said and with the wave of his hands, came servants scurrying with hot dishes as well as cold ones. It all looked exquisite. Jena placed some mutton and roast potatoes on her plate, along with a glass Dornish Red. _I could never stomach the sweetness of brandies._

“You drink Dornish Red?” the Queen asked her, with a dark eyebrow raised.

“The sweetness of the other ones do not agree with me, my queen.” Mariah Martell smiled warmly.

“You are to be my good-daughter. You are welcome to call me good-mother, or mother, if you so wish.” Her father looked at her sharply, as if daring her to call a Dornishwoman, her mother.

Thankfully, she was interrupted before being able to reply.

“You are pretty,” a young, slim boy with the famed Targaryen features said.

“Isn’t she pretty, Baelor?” he asked again. Jena blushed under her betrothed’s look that burned like fire.

“Lady Jena is very beautiful, Rhaegel. Careful, or your flattering comments may steal her from me. How would I ever get her back, once she would be by your side?” Baelor asked with a gentle smile, directed toward his simple brother. Rhaegel burst out in hysteric giggles, and Jena joined him in his laughter. Soon enough, almost everyone at the table, even the bookish Aerys and stern Maekar were gently laughing. _Except for father, he looks disgusted by the young Rhaegel._ Jena could hear her father’s snide remarks inside of her head. _A simpleton for a son is what you receive, when you mingle pure, honest blood with the Dornish, he would say._

“What lovely, long hair you have, Prince Rhaegel,” Jena told the boy opposite her, as everyone were lost in their own conversation. Jena’s dark gown of midnight blue began to tighten around her as she noticed Baelor looking at her from the corner of his eyes, whilst in conversation with his father.

“Mother says it is pretty, so I keep it,” he said with a smile and Jena thought he seemed splendid. _He is simple, yet gentle and harmless._

It shone like beaten silver, entwined with gold. His eyes were a murky purple, so unlike the darker ones of her betrothed.

“May I touch it?” she asked and the boy nodded fervently. Jena reached out a pale, slender hand and felt the silver-gold strands flow between her hands, like the softest Myrish silk.

“You are blessed to have such pretty hair,” she told him earnestly and he smiled.

“You are pretty,” he replied. From the corner of her eye, she saw a fond smile touch the queen’s lips. _Father does not look pleased. No doubt he thinks I have shamed us, one way or another._

After another hour of light conversation, she had spoken with almost all of the princelings, twice or more over. Maekar had been brusque, but courteous enough. Aerys spoke of some book he had read and Rhaegel told her that one of the kitchen-cats had given birth and wondered if Jena would like to see the kittens. She had told him that she would love to, as cats were her favorite of all animals. The young prince was ecstatic to share, that they were his favorite as well. The one remaining was her betrothed, who she had not gathered the courage, to address by name yet.

Suddenly, King Daeron stood up, and everyone did so as well.

“I fear I have matters that need to be tended to, but please remain if you would like to dine more, or you are welcome to be dismissed. It has been lovely meeting my future good-daughter. You seem a good and gracious woman, from a great family,” the king’s amethyst eyes drifted over her, her parents and her brother.

“Now I think that you and my son should acquaint yourself with one another, so I bid you welcome to take a walk through the castle or the grounds--whichever you choose,” he finished and Baelor nodded.

“My lady?” a deep voice asked from behind her, as most of the people had left. Her father had given her a warning glance, before he departed with her mother.

“Yes?” she turned around and was met with warm eyes, the color of amber stone. The crown-prince offered her his arm and she put hers through the crook of it.

“I thought we could take a walk through the keep. It is lovely when it is quiet, this time of the eve. I will have the guards trailing a few paces behind us, so that we will not be too disturbed.” Jena nodded, thankful that she would not have to worry about her words maybe reaching her father.

Together, they walked out of the dining hall, and into the main one. _Our wedding feast and dance is to be held here, tomorrow._

“Am I not what you imagined?” the prince asked her suddenly. Jena blushed from his fixed gaze and smooth words.

“No.” his arm felt strong, warm like Dornish sands.

“Are you disappointed?” he asked and she looked at him with confused, stormy eyes. _Is he jesting? He is the warrior reborn, strong and handsome. That jaw of his could cut steel, if he so wished, and his handsome face with those liquid eyes, warm my very being._

“No, my prince. Are you?” she countered with a raised eyebrow and a bite to her lip.

“Of course not. I expected a conceited, homely girl. You are humble, kind and beautiful. Rhaegel took a liking to you, Aerys as well. Even Maekar, who has that sword up his ass, constantly,” Baelor laughed and Jena did, as well.

“Prince Rhaegel is sweet and Prince Maekar was courteous.”

“Let us be happy, that he can be that, at the least,” her prince said with a quirky smile.

They had arrived in the throne room, where the dark was raging, to be balanced by a few candles. It made it seem even more ominous, to Jena. The iron throne, stood sharp and frightening, in the back of the room. Suddenly Baelor removed his arm from hers and moved closer. A hand reached up to her cheek, and she flinched. _I did not mean to, forgive me, she thought fervently._ Baelor dropped his hand as if he had been scalded.

“Did you think I was going to strike you?” He asked in a shocked tone, “For what?” he followed up, still equally as confused about the ordeal.

“I’m sorry, my prince. It was a force of habit,” she said as she looked down. Warm fingers took hold of her chin and raised it upward. He was tall, taller than the King, and almost had a foot on her-- _even though I am of common height for a woman._

“Why is it a force of habit?” he asked with a tender voice, it was tinged with sadness.

“That is what father does to mother and me,” she said. Shame covered her like a sheet of the stickiest honey. _Stupid girl, you were not supposed to tell. Father will punish you for this._ Baelor’s gaze hardened.

“No true man strikes a woman who is half his size, and cannot defend herself,” he spit out.

“Please do not tell,” she begged and he looked at her for so long, that she thought day had arrived when he answered.

“Very well.” A large hand touched her waist with the utmost sensitivity. _These Dornish and Targaryens are not at all, what father said they were. I like the queen better than I do him, when he is with his rage._ Her father was sour more oft than not, these days.

***

The next morning, she was awoken too early for her taste, by an excited mother and several servants.

“Up, my child-- you are to be wed!” her mother squealed in delight as she kissed her tired daughter on the cheeks. Jena felt rather… indifferent toward the prospect of being wed. Her worries of the prince had receded, from the short walk she had shared with him, the previous evening. _He seems good, but father is also good on the occasion. Men cannot be trusted._

So it was, that she was dragged out of her bed, bathed in rosewater, and dressed in a robe. Her hair was being dried by a maid, whilst another one dabbed specks of floral scents on her neck, the swell of her breasts and inner thighs.

“Gods, is it not beautiful, Jena?” she heard her mother ask, so she turned her head. Lady Dondarrion was stroking the pale blush colored gown--encrusted with sapphires and opals, along with silver and gold threading.

“It is,” Jena said in awe, and suddenly it truly struck her, that she was to be the consort of the crown-prince-- a future queen.

A knock was heard on the door, and her mother moved to open it.

“My queen, we did not expect you here,” Jena heard her mother say. The Dornish queen was of a height with Jena, and slightly taller than her Dondarrion mother.

“Of course, you had no cause to. I am simply here to give Lady Jena a gift, and then I shall be on my way again. Baelor seems a bit nervous, and even the strongest of men need their mothers, when they are nervous,” the queen smiled. Her mother laughed, and looked younger and more carefree than Jena had seen her, in a long time.

“Jena seems in awe,” her mother told the queen.

“It is not every day, that one gets married,” Mariah Martell said with a kind hand to Lady Dondarrion’s shoulder.

“No. It isn’t,” her mother agreed. _How come she sounds so hopeless?_

“You look more dazzling than the sun,” Mariah Martell told Jena as she moved closer. The queen had a box in her hand. _I wonder what it is._

“You are too kind, my queen, “ Jena said as she felt a blush embrace her pale skin.

“I am honest,” the queen said. Then she opened the box, and a beautiful hairclip of amber stone and gold, lay within. _It looks like the sun. It is their sigil._

“My mother gave this to me, the day I was to wed King Daeron. Alas, I have had no daughter to gift it to. You are to wed my oldest son, and bear his children-- what better woman to give it to, than Lady Jena of house Dondarrion?” The queen asked with sparkling eyes. Jena felt her heart constrict at the kind gesture. _She has known me for half an eve…_

“Your grace, I cannot accept. You have known me for half an eve,” Jena pleaded.

“That half of an eve, taught me much and more. You have a gentle heart, please accept it.” Jena touched the gem softly with a sigh.

“I hope you shall gift it to your own daughters, one day,” the queen said with misty eyes. Jena took hold of the queen’s hand, gently. It felt smooth and warm.

“I will,” she promised fiercely. “I shall wear it with pride,” she continued with a fervor. _Damn father, damn what he says. I am no longer his to order._

“Are you sure that you do not have a little Martell blood in you?” the queen asked with an amused smile.

“Now, I will.” _When your son is inside me, and I come to bear his children._ The queen kissed her on her cheek. Then she left and her mother gazed at her with knowing, blue eyes.

“The queen is kind and graceful,” her mother told her, and left the words hanging in the thin air. Choking and freeing, all at the same time. _I am to be free of father, yet mother is cursed until the day she dies._

“Yes, not like anything I expected.” Jena had expected an ugly, stunted woman who was cruel and cold, from the way her father had spoke of the queen and the Dornishmen, when she was younger. _All that ceased when my betrothal was announced._

“Not at all.”

After that, Jena’s hair was finished, and the final addition was the beautiful pin, that the queen had gifted her. It was fastened on with her veil. A smile adorned lady Jena’s lips as she gazed at herself in the long mirror-- young, fresh-faced and glowing.

“You look a princess, for true,” her mother said. _I feel it, as well._ Then it was time to depart to the carriage outside, that would take them to the Sept Of Baelor. Her brother and father were going to be joining them, as well.

“You look most beautiful, daughter,” her father said and her heart lightened. _He is in one of his good moods._

“Thank you,” she smiled and her father patted her cheek, with an almost unknown gentleness.

“Yes, you look enchanting, sweet sister,” her brother, the future lord of house Dondarrion, told her. _He is everything that father is not. Calm and gentle, stern yet forgiving. You will make a great lord, brother._

When they arrived at that monstrosity of a building, Jena was helped out of the carriage, by her father and brother.

“Let us have you wed, then,” her father said with a kind smile and offered her his arm. She accepted.

“What is that jewel in your hair?” her father asked with a frown.

“The queen gifted it to me,” Jena said nonchalantly. Her father hardened, yet again.

“It is the sigil of house Martell. She has made you her little puppet, in one eve!-- how can you be so naive? Are you as simple as that son of hers?” he whispered harshly and made doubt of the queen’s intentions, come creeping into her heart, unforbidden.

“The queen is kind,” Jena said in a whisper. Her father’s grip tightened.

“They all are, until they shoot you down from the skies.”

“Martells cannot be trusted,” he continued in his harsh whispers. _All my life, he has made my heart heavy, with the hate of his own beliefs. No more,_ she promised herself.

“I am to wed as much a Martell as a Targaryen,” she responded, defiantly. The Dondarrion lord looked around, until they spotted Baelor at the altar-- tall and beautiful.

“Aye, and do you see him up there, daughter?” her father asked.

“Yes.” She hated how her voice wavered as she said the word.

“Make him happy, tonight. Do whatever he bids and bear him a son. Or else, you shall see me wroth, as you have never before.” His words were cold as death, icy to the touch with a sickly, sweet taste.

“Do you hear me? If he wants you the way a hound wants a bitch, then you shall give it to him-- without any complaints.” Tears welled up in her eyes, but she willed herself to be strong.

“Yes.” A lightness bloomed in her chest, however. _He will leave for Blackhaven, soon enough. I will barely ever have to meet him again._ Yet it also hurt, for she missed the father he had once been-- before he fell ill.

Suddenly, she found herself up at the altar, with Baelor and his blazing eyes, meeting hers of the storm.

“No words can do your beauty justice,” he said as he looked at her heart-shaped face, still graceful beneath the heaviness of those damned southron braids.

“Thank you, my prince,” she smiled and it was genuine as summer. His warm hand touched her dainty, pale one as they were entwined with the pale, silken rope.

“You are now one flesh, one heart and one soul,” the septon declared them, and Baelor gently cupped her face with his large hands. Next, his lips were on hers, soft and gentle. It warmed her very soul and calmed her. _It is only the two of us here, to the Others with everyone else._ Then he placed his Targaryen cloak on her shoulder, and they were one. Cheers erupted, so loud that she swore her heart must have jumped out of her chest.

The feast was loud and massive. Jena had never seen such a great affair, and she had thought their feasts had been large. She was seated next to her husband, who had a calming hand on her arm, throughout the entire ordeal. Yet Jena was nervous, for what was to come. _What if he hurts me?_ She knew her thoughts were unfounded, for the prince had never shown her any such inclinations. _He is not cruel, I should not scorn him._ Something closer to the truth, was that she feared the bedding ceremony, where lords would rip her pretty gown apart and touch her where no woman wants to be touched, by strange men.

“How are you faring?” Baelor asked as he took a sip of wine. He stared out into the crowd, and then to his father and mother that were seated next to him.

“Well, my prince.”

“You are nervous,” he stated, he did not ask. _He knows._

“A little,” Jena admitted, with shining, blue eyes.

“For what?” he asked, but then he realised.

“The ceremony will only last for a few moments, I will be suffering through it, with you,” he said.

“But you are a man,” she said in confusion and Baelor snorted.

“So because I am a man, I want unfamiliar women undressing me, touching me and throwing me onto a bed? No, my wife--I like this ceremony as little as you.”

“Do they have it in Dorne?” she asked suddenly and the prince gazed at her for long moments, before replying in an even tone.

“No, they do not.”

“Then we should have wed there,” she smiled.

“I suppose we should have,” he agreed and her spirits lifted, once again.

“Would you like to dance?” her husband asked her, after another hour of the tiresome ceremony.

“I would love to,” she told him and took his hand. Together, they walked out onto the floor of the great hall. Many lords and ladies were drunkenly dancing around them, fumbling with each other and laughing. _It is all so carefree. One night of mirth, before the world comes crashing down upon us, yet again._

Singers were singing their songs of _the bear and the maiden fair,_ and the song of _Florian and Jonquil,_ in the background. Musicians were playing the harp and it all sounded so harmonious and lovely. Baelor wrapped his steady arm around her waist, and she did the same. Then they enclasped their hands and swirled gently, around the hall. The prince secured her in some way, his body felt right in front of hers-- large and embracing. In his arms, it felt as if nothing in the whole of the realm could hurt her. _Not father’s anger or mother’s sadness--or the childish fear of a bedding ceremony._

She found herself closing those gentle eyes of hers, and leaning against her fierce prince’s chest. She felt it vibrate with laughter after a few moments. Baelor stroked her back thoughtfully and kissed her head.

“You seem tired,” he said lightly and she nodded against his chest.

“I just wish it to be you and I, without all this noise and chaos,” she whined.

“A worthy wish,” he told her. “ And one we might be able to make true.” Her husband ended their dance, and left her trailing behind him, as he spoke to his father. Not long after, King Daeron called for the bedding.

Then the cheers grew louder, and lords came to lift her up and tear her gown asunder. _It was so beautiful, I wished to have kept it._ Lady Jena willed herself to be strong. _Do not weep, girl. Do not weep._ A gasp escaped her lips when she felt a hand on her breast, and another on her backside. _You must not weep. Be brave._ _You are not the first woman who will go through this, and neither will you be the last,_ she told herself. Jena closed her eyes and thought of other things. A futile attempt to make her situation seem less repulsive.

After too long, she was dropped onto the soft bed, where her marriage was to be consummated. Baelor followed, not long after. He ushered the lords and ladies out, with an easy, commanding presence. Quickly, Jena grabbed the silken covers, to shield her body. _He is a god,_ she thought. _And I am but a mere mortal._

Lean and hard, with the body of a true warrior-- he made her feel conscious about her soft body. Worry was in Baelor’s eyes as he looked at her, however, and he walked toward the bed.

“Are you alright, my lady?” he asked and wiped one of her tears away. _Weak girl, why did you weep?_ She had not even felt it, until he acknowledged it.

“Yes,” she smiled and he wiped a stray, brown curl from her face. With surprisingly gentle hands, he removed the pins in her hair and noticed the one she had been gifted by Queen Mariah.

“This was my mother’s?” he asked and Jena nodded.

“She gifted it to me, before the wedding.” A soft smile touched the prince’s plump lips.

“That was kind of her,” he said and Jena hummed in agreement.

“She is a kind woman.” What could Baelor do, but agree? Jena was still covering herself with the sheet, by the time Baelor rose, to pour them both a goblet of wine.

“It is Dornish Red, your favorite,” his lips twisted up in a smirk as he handed her a goblet. _He remembers._

“Have you ever been to Dorne?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Once or twice, when I was younger.”

“I hear it’s beautiful,” she said gently. Her husband bit his lip.

“It is. Aunt Daenerys had water gardens built, for the children to play in when it gets unbearably hot,” he began and took a sip. “You’ve not known true beauty, until you see the sun rise in the east, and set in the west, turning the horizon from a burning blue, to a mellow orange and a lovely purple.” Jena gasped, _it sounds splendid._

“I hear Princess Daenerys is quite the beauty,” Jena told her husband evenly.

“She is, and so are you.” There was something alluring in the very way he spoke and carried himself. _He enchants people._ Jena giggled and threw one of the pillows on him.

“Do you ever stop?” she said as laughs racked throughout her body. She did not notice that the cover had slipped-- that she did, when she saw his burning gaze on her. Mildly, she corrected it and saw his lips tilt upward.

“Do you not like being complimented, my lady?” he asked.

“You are overdoing it, and we both know,” she laughed and tilted her head back.

“Maybe I like seeing you blush and smile,” he said lightly, as eyes of amber burned into raging blue ones. Jena did not quite know what to say, to that.

“The realm is lucky to have you as their crown-prince,” she told him with honest, blue eyes that pierced through the empty parts of the prince. Jena did not know just how much, those words meant to the young prince.

“Some would not agree,” he said. “They think me more Dornish than Targaryen.”

“To the Others with them, and what is so dreadful about that? From what I have seen of the Dornish, they have been just as the Westerosi, if not greater.” Her prince bit his lip and looked at her with affectionate amber eyes.

“You looked so aghast the first time you laid your eyes upon me, why was that?” he asked her evenly and she looked down as a blush crept up her neck, flushing her cheeks and her heart fluttered in her chest. Young infatuation, is it not cruel but lovely?

“I was not repelled by you, if that is what you are asking. How could I be?” she asked and then continued. “You looked a true Targaryen, in your mother’s colors. I did not expect you to be so… chivalrous and kind. Strong and handsome.” The sip she took of her Dornish Red, soothed her soul and qualmed her worries.

“You flatter me,” he said with a boyish smile.

“As you do, me,” she opposed and saw him raise an eyebrow.

“You deserve it.”

“So do you,” she countered and their small bickering did much to brighten their smothering chamber.

“Have you ever bedded a woman before?” she asked, suddenly and the prince snorted.

“Yes, have you?” he asked and Jena smiled.

“Not a woman, no,” she giggled and Baelor continued their jest. A mock-frown covered his features. “How sad, I should have liked to hear of it,” he said with a childish petulance and now it was her time to snort.

“How about a man?” he asked and she shook her head but spoke.

“Would it matter, to you?” _I am intrigued as to what he will reply._

“To the lords and ladies of Westeros? Yes it would. To me? Only if me having bedded women before, matters to you.”

“Alas, I have not been bedded by anyone,” she confessed dramatically and her husband laughed.

“I am sure that can be mended, one way or another.” She gazed at him, as he drunk his wine. _His nose is the aquiline of the Targaryens, and his body is the stuff of gods. I have known the softness of those red, glistening lips._

“What has your career of bedding women, led you to believe?” she asked, teasingly.

The prince pondered for a few moments before replying. He looked feverishly hot, in the glow of their chambers, and the magic of the night.

“That a woman needs to be willing, or else you leave her be,” he said as his eyes turned to liquid amber.

“How do you know if she is willing?” Jena continued, in a light tone. Her husband moved toward her, light as a panther on his feet. _So lithe, for someone so big and strong._

“You just know,” he told her as he ran a hand alongside her pale shoulder. She shivered, even in the heat of the room. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips along her neck whilst she ran her hands through his dark hair, holding his head closer to her bare skin, underneath the crook of her neck. Her breathing began quickening and she felt pleasantly warm and tingly. _His touch is fire._ Warm hands massaged her back and his lips were everywhere, scalding and leaving nothing but destruction and lust in their wake. Sounds were escaping her lips, that she never thought would be possible to make. _I must sound like a whore in a Lysene brothel, she thought, abashed._

“Are you comfortable now?” Baelor asked with a tender stroke to her cheek. She nodded fervently. I am, I am, I am, she thought frantically. So, she took it upon herself to let the sheet covering her, fall down to the bed. Jena saw Baelor’s eyes widen and he cursed the gods, before he put his lips on her own. _This is different, she thought. His kisses are mad and desperate—furiously passionate._

He laid her head down in the middle of the large, wooden bed and stroked her tousled, sandy hair. Jena smiled wantonly and wrapped her legs around his waist. Her previous apprehensiveness, gone to the chiming of the wind. At first he entered her with a finger or two, whilst asking if it felt pleasant. _It feels...strange. Not good and not bad,_ then he did something with his hand and it made her eyes roll into the back of her head, she swore that she saw the stars on a stormy eve.

“I thought so,” her husband laughed and continued his wicked play.

Then as she grew increasingly erratic, her husband replaced his hand, with himself and buried his head into her neck, gently biting the soft flesh there-- with frantic breaths. She felt whole, in a way she had never before. He filled her up to the brim and it made her feel complete-- perfect. As if that was his rightful place, and had been all along. _Home. It is home,_ she caught herself thinking. The colors of the ceiling grew more vivid, as she held onto her husband, ran her hands along his back, so roughly that it left crimson marks. She heard him let out a sound of utter pleasure, from the crook of her neck. _The stars are in us._

“Baelor,” she whispered out as her voice grew shallow and light. He grunted her name and with a few more strokes, emptied himself inside of her. She could feel the warmth, and something wet trickle down the inside of her thighs. He spent himself just as she felt something overwhelming arriving, and wished he would not have stopped.

“I did not forget,” he laughed as he saw her pout when he moved to lay on his back, breathing in sharply.

“Come on,” he beckoned her forward and took hold of her waist. Then she was on top of him, and whole again-- yet unsure on what to do.

“What do I…” her voice faltered and she steadied herself on his hard chest, adorned with muscles.

“It is like riding a horse, or a dragon,” he told her with a teasing smile.

“You just have to be a bit more intent on your actions,” he finished and grabbed a hold of her waist, whilst the other travelled beneath her legs. Jena gasped and did what he bid. _He has not been wrong in anything, as of yet._ His name on her lips, on the tip of her tongue, was all she knew at that moment. _Baelor, Baelor, Baelor._ She hoped it would be hers to call, for eons to come. Her prince seemed to enjoy himself as well, even though he had already been spent, moments earlier.

She followed him, in her throes of passion, not long after. She collapsed against him, and he held her as she shook, from her daze. Both of them basked in each other’s arms, and a tiredness enveloped her. It feels comforting, though. _He will be here when I wake, to soothe and hold me. To care for me, as I will him._ She felt a kiss to her temple, a warm hand, protectively on her belly. They fell asleep, dreaming of all the things they could be.

A few moons later, she was notified by the maester that she was, indeed with child. _My very own dragon,_ she had thought. At the age of eight-and-ten, she gave birth to a son, whom they named Valarr. He was beautiful, as his father, in his mother’s colors. Except for that lovely streak of silver, that bore proof of his Targaryen heritage. Valarr’s eyes were a raging storm, like his mother’s. Not many years after, another son followed; they named him Matarys. A sweet and gentle boy, he was. A fierce love was borne from the wedding of that Targaryen prince and Lady of Dondarrion. Yet none of them, or their sons, would come to wear the crown.

 


	22. Love does not have to burn, to be true.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys reflects on past loves, and makes due with her new one. However much she detested it, at first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and here's a chapter on the second Daenerys, and her Dornish husband, Maron Martell.  
> I did write this half-asleep at two am, because I was originally going to continue on my Daella/Rodrik story (spoiler that's probably the next chapter lol) but the wifi messed up, so I couldn't access docs and had to start afresh with a new pairing, and write it in Word. 
> 
> I hope it's not too messy and awful. 
> 
> As usual, I would love to hear your thoughts, requests (perhaps both?!), and please leave a kudos if you enjoyed it. :) 
> 
> Until next time,

 

 

 

 

A year had passed since Daenerys had wed her husband, Maron Martell and left for Dorne. The princess had just recently celebrated her seven-and-tenth nameday, whilst her husband had been a man of two-and-twenty. Daenerys was beautiful and some would also say; much more so, than her husband. However, beauty is a subjective notion, and everyone has their preferred attributes. All that truly matters, is who they are beneath their mask. Even the comeliest of men can be terrible creatures within. Lovely, but terrible.

Prince Maron may not have been Daemon Blackfyre, but he was tall, lean and graceful. His eyes were a warm brown, instead of alluring purple. The skin covering his body was soft like samite, kissed by the feverish sun and beige—instead of pale alabaster. Maron’s lips were plumper than Daemon’s had been, and his jaw not quite as sharp and striking. He lacked the mannerisms of her lost Blackfyre love, as well.

The Dornish prince was gentle, firm at need, but he did not enjoy having to hand out harsh sentences, or the tediousness of ruling. One of his most giving attributes, was his perseverance and dedication to ruling. _I respect that._ Daenerys sometimes found herself missing Daemon’s brash nature, his fierce way of carrying himself, the way his eyes would soften as he took her in, and the way his kisses felt scorching like summer. Maron’s kisses were warm, like spring. They were comfortable, but did not inspire desire.

In the beginning of their marriage, Daenerys refused all effort of being kind and malleable to the prince. She was angry. Angry at Daeron, for denying her love, angry at Maron, for not giving her anything she could despise regarding his nature—angry at Daemon for not saving her, or running away with her, to wed. The princess had been fiercely bitter at the life she was forced to make due with, yet Daeron reminded her once, in his letters that had gone unanswered for that year; that their mother had it much worse than she would ever, and that he had to put the needs of the realm, in front of the love of two. King Daeron begged her forgiveness and told her, that the last thing he had wished, was to hurt two of the people he cared about.

The prince had taken her resentment and wariness in stride, and with more than a grain of salt.

_”We Dornishmen are not monsters,” he told her during supper. Daenerys gazed at him with confusion, swirling, in those violet eyes of hers._

_”I have never said you were,” she responded as she picked at her plate. It was too spicy for her, but she would simply have to go to bed hungry, another night. Daenerys refused to have the prince bear witness to her weakness. She would learn to like the tastes within time, she was sure._

_"Sometimes actions speak louder, when we have no words left to say it.” His tone held no anger or spite, and it made the princess wroth to see that kindness in his eyes, that warm light that shone in them. Why can’t you hate me? It would be so much easier to scorn you, if you were not so bloody kind to me! Her thoughts were molten fire and coursed through her body like the sharpest sword. Please, HATE ME. It would be kinder to you._

_”May I be excused?” Daenerys said as she rose from the table, the wooden chair screeching at her sudden movement. Her husband frowned and ran a hand through his onyx hair._

_”But you have not finished dining, my princess? You will fall ill, if you do not begin to eat more. If it is the food, then I can make southron requests for the cook.” Daenerys bit her lip and straightened the hem of her cotton dress, even though she had been sweating fiercely. She had refused to don the Dornish fashion, at dire personal cost._

_”There is no need. I am full, and now I wish to sleep,” she told him, with steady, piercing violet eyes. The prince stroked his dark stubble as he contemplated her lie, which he knew it was._

_”Goodnight then, my princess. I fear I shall be tending to the matters of state, until the early hours of the morning. You will have to sleep alone,” he said with a forced smile. A wave of guilt came crashing down upon the princess, drowning her with the stickiness of shame._

_Daenerys knew that he had no matters to tend to, he was simply giving her privacy, and would most like spend the night in his study. I am kicking him out of his own bed, she thought, and the prospect felt shameful._

_”As you say, my prince.” Daenerys made one final bow, and then departed._

As the months progressed and each dawn would bleed into dusk, small progresses were made, and brought the pair closer to one another. He would give her books to read, and then inquire on them, or he would play cyvasse with her and maybe share a story or two from his youth. He always cared for what she had to say, and took much of it into account. Daenerys found herself enticed to the prospect of her husband giving her an equal part in their marriage. Daemon loved her beauty, but did not care much, for that which laid hidden beneath.

Prince Maron did not take his husbandly pleasure from her often, the first moons of their marriage and Daenerys had been thankful. Though gentle in his performance; Daenerys was still mourning the love of her youth and detested his touches. She had wanted Daemon to be her husband and bed her, but that had never come to be. The princess would most oft close her eyes and think of a man with silvery hair, and purple eyes deriving his pleasure from her. Maron must have noticed, but said none of it. He allowed the princess her comforts and was not blind to her pains or struggles. She had wished for distance, and he gave it to her—yet was always ready to inch closer.

This day, Daenerys decided to don a long, flowing gown of orange silk, that showed far too much of her bosom, than she would have liked—yet the sun shone blisteringly hot, and she could not bring herself to reach for one of the cotton ones. The Dornish gowns were a gift from her husband, yet he had never expected her to wear them. At least not in the beginning of their marriage. However, it had now been a year since they wed and although her heart still craved Daemon, Maron had become something akin to a good friend and it left her reeking with guilt, each time she scorned him, now. How far the two had come, and what a long way, they still had to go.

Daenerys saw the children playing in the water gardens, and the sight put a lovely smile on her face. _How I wish the world could seem as carefree, as it does in the eyes of children._ Some of them noticed the pale princess standing by the balcony, rejoicing in the breeze and waved at her. She waved back and noticed that though she was still pale, a warm tone had begun to embrace her skin. _I need to ask the maester for an ointment to prevent burns,_ the princess reminded herself. _We Targaryens may be of the fire, but it does not prevent it scalding us._

The hallway leading out of the chambers Daenerys and her husband shared, was vibrant and colorful-- filled with statues and paintings. She adored the mahogany tones of the wooden stairs, that led down to the main castle, and the way the wood felt smooth and supple betwixt her fingers. _It is not King’s Landing, but that does not mean I do not enjoy it. Dorne gives me a freedom, I would otherwise have lacked. The people here are not so greedy, vain and status-seeking, as in the capital. I am a person here, not just a princess and sister to the king._

Maron was breaking his fast when she entered the dining hall. He greeted her with a soft smile.

“You slept long today, my princess.” Daenerys helped herself to a piece of his fried bread and nodded.

“I was tired,” she said and her violet eyes sparkled, for she was in great spirits, this day.

“It seems you have a hunger, as well,” he said as he took her in, and decided to push his plate of fried bread and eggs toward her.

“I am full anyway,” he said with a raised eyebrow, as he saw her getting ready to chide him, for not finishing his meal.

She dragged out the wooden chair with intricate carvings, next to her husband and began breaking her fast, alongside a cup of milk sweetened with honey.

“You look magnificent, my princess,” Maron said and Daenerys blushed, even though he was often heard praising her beauty.

“Thank you, I found this in the chest of clothing you had made for me, and it looked too beautiful to disregard. Besides, woolen gowns are not suited for this fierce heat,” she said with pursed lips.

“I thought you Targaryens were supposed to love the heat, and the sun is of the fire,” her husband said pleasantly, with an accent that felt satisfying as it washed over her ears and calmed her soul. He was safety, where Daemon was danger.

“Just because we enjoy it more than others, does not make us immune toward it.”

“A common misconception, that sometimes works to our advantage,” she continued teasingly, and her husband laughed. She found herself noticing the way his eyes would crinkle and his nose scrunch up, as he laughed his true laugh. It put a smile on her lips.

“What will you be doing today, then?” she asked as she took a large sip from her goblet and began twirling the bracelet of amethysts, that Daeron had gifted her.

“Not much, I must confess. Dorne can manage one day without me, and it is far too hot a day to worry over such things. My fellow advisors will surely not leave it a burning monstrosity-- but if they do; I shall deal with it upon the morrow,” he answered with amusement lacing his words.

“With that said, I am yours to command, princess.” Daenerys smiled wickedly.

“I think I should like to read in the balcony. You may join me,” she said evenly, but prince Maron knew his wife, and knew that it was not a request; but a command.

“Then let us depart for the balcony,” he replied and stood up. Daenerys took hold of the arm he offered, and felt his soft gaze on her body. _He is a man, she told herself._ _As I am his wife. It is not strange that he craves me, so why does it make me feel so queerly?_

The warmth of his arm felt a comfort, as they walked together in an amiable silence. Daenerys found herself leaning into his touch and something bloomed within her. A search for affection, for tenderness, for praise. She had been denying herself these things for so long, that it left her body drained of it. _Maron is kind and gentle, he would love me if only I allowed him to._ Daemon began to dull in her memory, he became something like a feverish dream. _A crush as I was on the cusp of maidenhood, but I did love him for true. Did he love me?_ It did not hurt her as much, to think of him anymore. _He married Rohanne at the age of four-and-ten. I was only a maid of twelve._ Perhaps one day; Daenerys would know the difference between childish infatuation and love. She was getting there, but that day was not today.

The sun was blazing from the azure horizon, but the heat felt comfortable on Daenerys’s skin. Her husband removed his silken tunic, revealing the smooth skin beneath. _He is not as strong and muscled as Daemon was, yet he is not without._ His arms were strong from sparring and his stomach was muscled. Fine, black hairs were sparsely spread out on his chest. _He was never uncomely, I judged him too harshly. He is beautiful in his own way. The Dornish way, and I am Dornish now._

“Daenerys?” his smooth voice brought her back from her inner thoughts and she saw him with an easy smile on his face, as he squinted in the light of the sun.

“Yes?” she asked and he handed her a book on the loves of Queen Nymeria.

“I do not know if you have read this one, yet.” Daenerys pondered the title, for any sort of recognition in her mind, yet it remained blank.

“No it seems I have not. What is it about?” she asked and Maron smirked the tiniest bit.

“The men that became the lovers and husbands of that fierce warrior queen. Some details of her early adventures are in there too, as well as other ones,” his voice changed as he spoke the last parts of his sentence, and Daenerys saw him cough a little and take a drink of the cooling water.

“Well I shall be intrigued to read it,” she said with a coy smile and his smile sparkled as i was directed her way.

“It is a good read,” he said and then leaned back into his chair, and closed his eyes.

“You will certainly have to wake me if there are any questions or comments. I would love to bear witness to them.” Then her husband seemed to fall asleep, as Daenerys read her book in the heat of the glistening sun.

Nymeria truly had her adventures, and was an admirable woman. She was as fierce and strong as any man, and took her fair share of them to bed. Such things were not frowned upon in Dorne, yet in King’s Landing they were fiercely taboo. Daenerys blushed as she read some of the excerpts found of Queen Nymeria’s private diaries. _This was Dorne,_ she had to remind herself as she read of the more frivolous details of queen Nymeria and her husbands. The Dayne one seemed the most intriguing, for that one she took last, in the purpose of love and pleasure.

The Daynes were considered comely and most were beautiful, even Daenerys knew. Some had hair as black as midnight, with striking blue eyes. Others had silver-gold locks and vivid purple eyes. _They look like us, but they are not of Valyrian blood._ Neither had they intermarried with the Daynes, for them to be gifted such fine features. _It is strange how the world works, sometimes._

A few hours later, Maron woke, just as Daenerys had finished the book. The scorching heat had lessened somewhat, but she still felt her silken dress stick to her back uncomfortably. Her husband had been kissed by the sun, as his skin was slightly darker and more reddish, than before he had retired for his nap. Bleary, brown eyes looked at her and a dazed smile transformed his features.

“You look pleasantly flushed.” His accent was heavier, as he was freshly woken, she noted. The tips of her fingers ached, to smooth out his dishevelled curls of the finest onyx.

“The heat has that effect,” she allowed with a quirky smile and he raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I should think so. Perhaps the book played a part, as well.” A knowing smile touched his lips and then he laughed as he saw the abashed look that graced Daenerys’s face.

He sat up immediately as he noticed her withdrawing and took her pale hands into his warm, beige ones.

“There is no shame in it, wife. You are a woman, and this is not King’s Landing.”

“I’ve read books like these before,” she scoffed even though it was a lie. She never had the time to, as courtiers were dancing attendance on her, hoping to be betrothed or gain her favor, and her eyes were always on Daemon. _More than they should have been._

“Really?” her husband asked with an impressed glance as he drew little strokes on her hand, with his thumb.

“Yes.”

“Then you will have to share those titles with me someday.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Maron rose and moved into the hall, to call for the servants. He ordered them to carry a tub to their chambers, with cooling water, for he wished to bathe. Daenerys basked like a cat in the heat, until she felt the sweat trickling down her back and neck. _I hope I am not red as a ripe tomato, now,_ she thought in dismay as she opened her eyes.

The book of Nymeria’s loves laid forgotten on the little table of white marble, as she stood up and stretched her legs and back. She walked through the flowing curtains of red and orange, into their chambers, where the servants had just finished pouring the water into the ornate tub of bronze. It was encrusted with gems like jade and amethysts, with gold detailing.

“Thank you, you are dismissed,” her husband told the servants gently, and they departed.

Then he turned to Daenerys.

“You are welcome to join me, if you would like. There is more than enough room.” It was true, the tub looked to be the size to fit four grown men, and Daenerys had always been a small woman. Even though she was taller than her mother had been, and stood at five feet and three inches. Suddenly, an ache took over her. She missed her mother, and her uncle, both who died within a year of each other. _They did not deserve to die so early,_ she thought sadly. _They were robbed from Daeron and I, all because of our foolish father who could not keep his urges in check._

Daenerys did not reply to Maron, but instead sat down on the table in front of him and watched him undress with a withdrawn glance. The prince of Dorne shrugged his shoulders and removed his breeches of red satin, and climbed into the tub with a sigh. Somehow, the action made the princess’s breaths grow more erratic and unsteady. _Calm yourself,_ she told herself. Yet Daenerys had never seen her husband naked in the light of day, so openly. Usually it would be in the dark of his chamber, and she would not have the time to truly look at him or his body. This felt strangely more intimate than being bedded.

Her husband moved to the edge of his tub, and rested both of his arms on it as he put his head atop them. His brown eyes were searching, and his hair stuck to his head and neck like spilt ink.

“What did you think of Queen Nymeria, then?” he asked and Daenerys toyed with the hem of her gown. _I think she was an admirable woman, stronger than most men and women. It takes a strong spirit, to do what she did._

“I think that she was fierce and all that is to be wished in a woman.” Maron smiled.

“Yes, she was,” he agreed and studied her face and body. None of them spoke for long moments after that. _I wonder what our children will look like,_ the princess found herself thinking.

“Your hair has grown to be more silver, than it was when you first arrived. I suppose we have our ferocious sun, to give thanks to for that,” he said with a laugh. Daenerys smiled. _I did think that it had grown lighter, but I was not sure._

“Your remains as black as night,” she told him and he nodded.

“Would you wish it to be lighter?” he asked with an amused smile and she shook her head.

“No, it looks beautiful. Like ink and onyx and flowing, black rivers.”

“Yours is like the whitest gold and shiniest of silver. It is the glowing, luminescent moon, entirely out of this world.” His words were smooth like velvet upon his tongue and she rejoiced in the sweet comment. _It somehow means more, coming from him, than any of my old companions. He sees me for who I am. He truly sees me._

“You are too kind,” she said and looked down.

“My sister always said she was honest, and I fashion myself to be the same. I do not say things, if I do not mean them. That is not how things are done in Dorne. The cost of lies can be vast and great.”

“That is honorable,” she told him and he shook his head.

“No, it is decent.”

An assortment of strawberries, mango and other fruits lay on a platter of gold, next to a tankard of arbor gold. _He knows I like it better than the sour tones of the Dornish Red._ Daenerys filled moved to fill two goblets of wine and took a handful of berries, as well. She leaned down and Maron gratefully accepted the cup, as he drank from it deeply. Then she handed him some berries, and he opened his mouth for her to place them in it. Droplets of water was steadily dripping down onto the plush, Myrish carpet, as his arms were on the edge.

Deftly, she placed a strawberry in his mouth and shivered when he gently bit the tip of her index finger, with his teeth and kissed it. A giggle escaped the princess’s lips, and then she ate the rest of the berries, to her husband’s dismay.

“I should have liked more,” he said with a childish sort of petulance. Daenerys stroked his clean-shaven cheek and kissed his forehead.

“Later,” she chided and he splashed some water on her, in return. Daenerys gasped, trying to cover up a laugh of mirth.

“You ruined the dress that you, yourself gifted to me,” she said, trying to maintain a cool facade, even though her body yearned to laugh at his antics.

“Do not be dramatic, wife,” he scoffed but she saw the warmth, ever present, in his eyes.

“It is only some water,” he continued. She splashed some in his face, as a reimbursement for his antics and he fiercely wiped his eyes as he laughed.

Daenerys decided that she did feel warm and fatigued, and the water had felt good on her skin. So she took her husband up on his offer, discarding her gown easily, and climbing into the tub with him. Maron quieted as soon as she did. She hissed at how the cool water clashed with her burning skin, but it dulled into a pleasant sensation, and she closed her eyes in utter bliss.

Maron grabbed her body, moving it closer to his and Daenerys groaned.

“I was laying very comfortably,” she complained, but quietly delighted in his presence, engulfing her. A kiss to her shoulder was felt, and then gentle hands, combed through her waves of hair more silver, than gold. It allowed her to relax, and forget. To leave the past behind where it should remain buried, and embrace the future. _I hope I grow great with child, soon. It would bring joy to both Maron, and I._

“Have you come to find it comfortable here, in Dorne, princess?” he asked her suddenly and Daenerys nodded against his chest.

“Yes. On the occasion, I find it more favorable than King’s Landing ever was,” she told him honestly and felt him smile in the crook of her neck.

“I am glad. How do you like me, now? I know this was purely political, but I have grown to care for you very much,” he told her and somehow, his words made her weepy.

“I treated you wrongly, when I first arrived,” she responded, her voice thick with emotion. It still made her feel guilty, to recall how she had been so cruel and scorned him, when all he did was show her humility and kindness.

“You were young, and this was not according to your will. I have heard the whispers of childhood loves, of loss and pain. What good would it do for me to be cruel, to someone who has already suffered? I was young once, as well.” Daenerys laughed.

“You are not old, Maron,” she told him.

“Sometimes I truly feel it,” he replied somberly.

“Yet you keep me young, my Targaryen princess,” he allowed and stroked the side of her hip.

“I have come to care for you, as well,” she admitted as he drew half-circles on her thighs, underneath the cooling water that shone clear like crystals.

“That is good, you are too young and too beautiful to be so sullen and pained.”

“I am not sullen,” she she retorted, even though she knew that she could be, on the occasion.

“Not any longer,” he said with a kiss to her cheek.

She took hold of his large hand and placed it on her belly and held it there for a few moments.

“When do you expect we should see it swell?” she asked him good-naturedly and he looked at her, his entire face was glowing.

“It depends. Mayhaps my child is already quickening within you, and we do not know,” he told her and beamed. _I would hope so,_ she found herself thinking.

“Or, we could increase our efforts, for a favorable outcome,” he said with a caress to her thigh. What Daenerys took from that, was that he would like to bed her, so she moved to turn around, but he held her in place.

“This is not King’s Landing, princess. You are free to enjoy yourself.” Daenerys was confused, and tried to recall what her septas and companions had told her of the act of bedding. _None of them ever mentioned that I should enjoy myself. They said that it was for the man._

Daenerys grew rigid as she felt his hands separating her thighs and kissing the side of her neck. His kisses did not feel like spring, any longer. They feel like the very sun on his sigil.

“In Dorne, women are free to enjoy themselves. Did you not ask Queen Nymeria?” he referred to the book she had been reading and Daenerys nodded.

“So why will you not let yourself?” her husband asked, and she turned around, straddling him.

“I am,” she breathed and then kissed him in an earnest passion. Maron smiled and grabbed her hips fiercely and then allowed them to venture lower until the princess was a shivering mess in the water.

After, Maron wrapped her in one of his silken tunics, and she moved to look at the sun setting in Sunspear, the children departing from the water gardens. She felt Maron embracing her from behind, and leaned into his touch with a smile.

“Back so soon?” she asked teasingly.

“Making children is tedious work, I fear,” he said with a snort and that wondrous tilt to his words.

 A frown covered Daenerys’s face as she realised, that all of the children in the water gardens had likely been of noble birth.

“What happens to the lowborn children, and those born to the servants, in this fierce heat?” she asked.

“I do not know…” her husband told her. “I think they might hide in the shade, I have never inquired on it,” he confessed.

“Should they not be allowed to bathe as well? It is so hot, and I take pity on them. They deserve to be cooled, just as the other children do.” Her husband grasped her delicate body tighter and she felt him kiss her shoulder.

“Of course they should, my gentle wife. I will notify my advisors and staff of this change.” She turned to him with warm, violet eyes.

“Thank you,” she said and truly meant it.

“If it pleases you, my princess,” he replied and absentmindedly stroked her belly through the silken tunic. _I could grow to love him. All it will take is time, and we have plenty._

A few moons later, Daenerys had experienced heavy sickness during the morning, and could not stand to be in the vicinity of certain foods. She also noticed that she had grown larger, and that her belly had swelled. When Maron and her visited the maester, he confirmed their suspicions. The Targaryen princess was indeed with child, and both her and Maron, could not be more overjoyed at the prospect.

Maron would lay awake during the nights, softly caressing the swell of her belly and speaking gently to the babe within. He spoke of his childhood, of his family, of Daenerys and her lineage.

_“You are the blood of a dynasty lost, of the Rhoyne and dragons. Of queens and kings--princesses and princes,” he whispered and Daenerys smiled. Then she playfully smacked him on the head and told him that she wished to sleep. Her husband had other plans, yet she was not averse to them. Not the slightest._

Daemon became what he always was. A childhood infatuation that grew weaker as each day passed. She could barely remember what he looked like, even though she was aware that it was not a face that one forgot easily. He was a bright star, but now his memory had dulled and its sparkle was nearly lost. _We would never have been, it was a foolish child’s fancy and Daeron did well to not make us wed. It would have brought his claim into even more of a question._

The princess expected her husband to tire of her, when she grew great with child, but it only drew him to her more. Daenerys did not complain, for she grew to love his gentle touches. She realised that love does not have to burn, to be true. He showed her things she did not know was able to exist for a woman, and he would massage her sore feet and shoulders. Maron would hold her at night and deal with her incessant changes of mood, however often it came, with a tenderness.

She was equal to him, not less because she was a woman. He took note of her opinions, cared for her well-being and never undermined her. She was his precious dragon, and he was her sun. They formed a routine, and it grew comfortable. _I love him,_ she realised, when she was days from giving birth, and almost two years into their marriage.

Then the princess gave birth. Through tears, screams and the cursing of her husband’s cock, did she give birth to a squalling, red-faced son. He was named Prince Lewyn of house Martell, and what a breathtaking babe, he was. Blessed with Maron’s dark hair and gentle nature, he inherited his mother’s purple eyes; though no one knew quite what shade they would grow to be.

_“You fought a harsh battle in this childbed. You were victorious, and we were awarded a sweet son, whom we can finally call our own. I am immensely proud of you, my princess,” her husband told her, as he kissed her damp forehead with tender lips. Lewyn was sleeping soundly in her arms._

_“I cannot wait until we make another,” she told him earnestly and he laughed._

_“Me neither, but let us make due with the one we were given, for now. We have years and years to do so, and it will be enjoyable to try, i’d wager,” Maron said as he beamed at his wife and then leaned in, to kiss their son’s head._

_“Our family,” he said in awe._

_“Our family,” she agreed and took hold of his hand, to squeeze it gently._

As the years droned on, Daenerys found a kind love with her husband. It was warm and lovely, though it might not have been fervent and scalding-- it was just right for her. She gave him more children, and Daemon grew to be a memory from a different life. Dorne became home, to the princess-- in a way that King’s Landing never was. Maron showed her that there was more than one way, to be loved and she was thankful. Her marriage might not have been what she had expected it to be, but she was grateful that it had come to be.


	23. The cost of damnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Daella's life and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is trash 
> 
> might delete later ngl lol

 

 

 

Her husband truly did not look like the sort who would ever be able to be the consort of a royal princess, of the blood of dragons, gods and monsters. Yet, he was. Lord Rodrik Arryn was also twenty years older, than his young princess.

Daella was a small woman, barely taller than a girl of ten; and with much of the sensitive nature. It was as if she never did grow up, yet she was a joy to her husband. For he loved to dote upon his young princess. Some would think it a bit abhorrent; as she was a girl of six-and-ten when they wed, and he, a man of six-and-thirty, with four children. His oldest child, Elys Arryn; was three years older than his new wife.

Lord Rodrik was almost completely bald, short of stature, with a kettle-belly, but still, he had been the husband she had chosen; of the three offered. He took some pride in that. Daella was sweet… but simple and quick to cry. Her fears were so many, that he lost count of them all. It was bees, cats, gardens and all those pesky little things in-between.

They had wed on Dragonstone, the ancestral home of the Targaryens, although her husband had disliked the island.  _ He called it dreary and unforgiving. _ Daella felt at peace there, but she did not expect her husband to. Dragonstone’s beauty could only fully be appreciated, by those who shared its blood that coursed through those walls-- filling it with an ominously soothing sort of spell. The location for their wedding was partly because of Daella’s comfort in the castle; and because she could not stand the thought of a bedding ceremony.

When the wedding and feast had been done, her husband had calmly taken her hand and led her to their marital chambers. Daella had only known that she was to be a woman; and that Alyssa had liked being a woman, very much. Yet… it did not fully rise up to what Daella had thought it to be. In the young princess’s eyes; it had been quite a strange affair, indeed.

Her husband had removed her clothing and the kissed her softly; but she did not like it, as his lips felt thin and strange on hers.  _ It was too slimy, too wet. _ Then he removed her gown and fondled her, she seemed to be to his taste. At least her body. Daella had never seen a man’s part before, and it had unnerved her. She told him that she did not want to look at it, and he had nodded gently, stroked her cheek and responded that she needn’t.

She thought the ordeal had been too messy, for her husband had been sweating like a pig on top of her, and grunted like one, as well. It had hurt, but he did not last for long; so she had taken comfort in that. It felt strangely sinful to have a man empty himself inside of her, and she did not enjoy the way it had trickled down her thighs, either. Suffice to say; the princess was not fond of being bedded.  _ I cannot believe that it was that, which got Saera sent to the Silent Sisters, why would she risk it all, for such a disappointing act? _ Yet it had made her kind husband happy, so she thought that a little suffering for his joy, was a good bargain.

When they had returned to the Eyrie, Daella as the new lady-- they had been cheered on by crowds. Except for by his oldest daughter, Elys. Lady Elys thought Daella a weak and craven creature, who only whined and was doted upon by her husband. Daella thought Lady Elys bitter and mean, for she made the princess cry, by means of her cruel, snide and hurtful remarks. Lord Rodrik tried to wager peace between the two, yet it bore little fruit.

His other children, the younger Amanda and his two sons; Robyn and Rowland, were smitten by the princess. They thought her so ethereally beautiful and kind. The princess had a gentle heart, after all. She took to the children, as they did her. Young Amanda even began writing the letters that Daella wrote to her mother and father; as she was never good at fashioning letters, and they were untidy and incoherent; as she could barely write.

Now, six moons after the wedding, Daella had settled comfortably. She did miss her mother dearly, as well as her father and Maegelle, but Amanda had become something akin to the guiding star of Daella’s childhood. She had been feeling queerly, however, and was more weepy than she was wont to be, these days. Even Lord Rodrik noticed and worried for her.

_ “Is something amiss, princess?” he asked, worriedly and all she could stare at was the thin hair growing out in patches, atop his head. The sight only made her weep harder. _

_ “No..-I-I-” she stuttered and slobbered, as she felt his arms around her slim body. He was a short man, only two or three inches taller than herself; his arms felt constricting around her. She wanted her father’s hugs. Jaehaerys was a lean and graceful man, long-limbed and gentle with his touch. Lord Rodrik was clumsy, stout, thick and short-limbed at best.  _

_ “Stop!” she cried as she wrenched free from his grip, running into their chambers and closing the door. Her husband left her to cool down, and she did. During dinner, none of her previous tears and sporadic episodes of erratic behavior were present. _

This eve, Daella was dressed in a blue gown of samite and wool, gifted to her by Lord Rodrik. Her maids all gushed over the small princess and spoke of how lovely she looked, and that the blue complimented her silver-gold hair.  _ I look fat! _ Daella thought, outraged and began to weep, tearing at her body. Her maids looked on, in a panic.

“Fetch Lord Rodrik or Lady Amanda, quick, Tansy! Before she overexerts herself, they will know how to calm her,” one of the maids barked out at a servant, and the tall, haughty servant named Tansy, returned with Lady Amanda.

“Dae?” The little Lady called out, as she saw Princess Daella in a blue, tearful heap on the floor.

“I look fat!” Daella cried as she felt small arms embracing her, and combing through her silver-gold locks, tenderly.

“You do not, step-mother,” the child chided her. Daella looked up, with watery purple eyes that met the blue ones of the Arryn girl. 

“You look pretty, not fat.” The young Amanda’s voice was hard and final; daring Daella to disagree. Instead of replying, for she had nothing to say, the princess simply hugged the girl harder, until all the tears were expelled from her system. Lady Amanda spoke not a word, during the entire ordeal. All she did, was to stroke her step-mother’s back, the way she knew Daella liked it, and combed through her hair. The Arryn girl wished that she would have had the sort of hair that her step-mother had. Perhaps her sibling would grow to have it.

“Now let us go eat, father and the others are most like waiting.” Daella nodded, dried her tears and followed her step-daughter, throughout the halls that were decorated with statues of falcons and other birds. 

Lord Rodrik looked anxious as he saw Daella tear-stained, yet again. He made no comment of it, though. This was because if he did, then he would most like set her into one of her episodes again, and he knew she would likely be worried that her tears were showing, and then weep if someone acknowledged it. It was a vicious cycle, indeed.

“You look beautiful, my precious princess,” he told her instead, as he clumsily stood up to greet her, with a kiss to the cheek. Lady Elys remained seated, with pursed lips and cold, pale blue eyes as she took in the form of her erratic step-mother, that was years younger than herself. 

“Does not the blue of the gown, pay compliment to her hair, father?” Lady Amanda asked, purposefully.

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. The silver threading looks almost like your hair, princess,” he smiled and saw Daella blush and nod, stammering over her courtesies. 

“Yes, beautiful. How lovely of you to finally grace us with your regal presence. We are famished,” Lady Elys said with dismay, but a cold look from her father, shut her up before any more damage could be done. Tears began to fill Daella’s eyes again, but Lady Amanda prevented them from falling.

“Would you like some beef stew, step-mother?” she asked, making sure that the words step and mother, were heard loud and clear to both her sister and Daella. The princess smiled and nodded, as Lady Elys bristled. Duly, Amanda poured some beef stew to cover the potatoes on the princess’s plate, before filling her own. Lord Rodrik looked pleased at his youngest daughter’s gentle heart, good initiative and dedication to her new step-mother’s wellbeing.

Princess Daella only had time to take a few bites, before she hurriedly ran from the table, and retched into a vase she found to the side of the hall. The effort left the princess a weeping mess, tired and drained. She was embarrassed to have shamed herself, so.

“Daella?” her husband was heard yelling, and then he was behind her--breathing hard from the effort. Daella continued retching and weeeping at the same time. She felt someone stroke her hair, and pull it from her face.  _ I’m sorry _ , she thought in a fierce shame. 

“Let us pay a visit upon the maester, shall we?” her husband asked in a soothing voice. Daella nodded and rose at once, but it took her husband a guiding hand, to rise himself, for his back had begun plaguing him. When she turned around, she grew red as a beet, for there stood Lady Elys and her other step-children. Elys looked equal parts appalled and disgusted.

“Get her sorted,” Lady Elys said cooly, before returning to the dining hall, with Robyn, Rowland and Amanda. 

***

The maester was a tall and spindly man, with a long,wizened beard. His sunken skin unnerved the princess, so she clung to her husband tightly and continued weeping.

“Hush now, my precious princess,” Lord Rodrik whispered soothingly, into Daella’s ear, as the maester examined her. It made the princess fiercely uncomfortable, when he lifted the hem of her dress, to prod at her belly and hips. 

“How long has it been since her last moon’s blood?” The maester asked in a gravelly voice. Lord Rodrik looked to Daella, but she didn’t know. She could barely count, it was her maids who recorded such things.

“I don’t know,” Daella said and shook her head. “It has been long,” she admitted, because a long time had passed, now that she truly thought of it. 

“How have you been feeling of late, princess?” The maester asked her, bending down, to seem a comfort. Daella found the gesture unnerving. Stand up! 

“I have been feeling unwell,” she said. “Like mother used to feel.” It still did not register in sweet Daella’s brain, why her mother had been feeling sick during that time.

“Ah yes. Have you experienced trouble eating certain foods? Keeping them down?” he asked her and nodded when she nodded. 

“Yes, and Lord Rodrik has been regularly taking his husbandly duty?” Lord Rodrik nodded and the maester nodded, his extra chins bobbling and grotesquely reminding Daella of a rooster. 

“It seems that she is most likely with child. I would say a few moons along, but we will not know for sure, until we consort with her maids and they tell us when she last had her moon’s blood.”  _ Me? With child? _ The notion frightened the little princess. How would she be able to birth a child?  _ I am not strong like Alyssa was. _

“Congratulations, princess,” The maester smiled at her.

Daella burst out in new tears.

*** 

It turned out, that the princess had been four moons along, yet bore almost none of the external evidence. She was still small and delicate; all that was growing, was her belly. Daella screamed the first time she felt the babe move within her. It was such a queer feeling, as if her insides were a twisting monster, waiting to get out of her. It had reminded her of a serpent ringling inside of her, and Lord Rodrik had to comfort her for hours, to get that notion out of her head. 

Her husband doted upon her, and so did her younger step-children. They knew not to upset her, for she was with child and any stress could harm their brother or sister. Lady Amanda was excited at the prospect of a new sibling; especially one that would look like a Targaryen, the young lady hoped it would have her step-mother’s silver-gold curls, and if they were lucky; the purple eyes as well. 

The spells of tears visited her frequently, and the princess could barely stomach the thought of mutton or veal, or any meat for that matter. She enjoyed turnips, however, which shocked her. Daella had never liked turnips, but now she consumed them as if they were the very sustenance for life. Letters were written to her Queen-mother and father, but Daella did not have much part in the writing of them. Amanda said that she would be fine, and that there was no reason to worry the Queen, for she surely had larger concerns that she was tending to. Daella could not argue with that, when even Lady Elys and her Lord-husband agreed.

When Daella was six moons along, however, she grew scared. Her new family was so excited toward the prospect of a Targaryen babe, that they were all with her, constantly. It turned Daella half-mad, for sometimes she truly wished to be alone. The little princess had also not bonded with her babe, she saw it as more of a creature growing within her, and shivered each time it moved.  _ I do not like it. I do not. _

The hands on her belly, was almost what she detested the most. They were everywhere, creeping, touching and prodding; hoping to feel the babe. It disgusted the princess, and made her skin crawl.  _ Can they stop, please, make them stop!  _ The princess was scared.  _ What If I won’t be a good mother? I want to be like mother, but I know I cannot. _ The thought of pushing that babe from between her legs, also frightened her; as being bedded already hurt and it was not even a tenth of the size that a babe is.

The princess was grateful that her husband had stopped bedding her, since he found out that she was pregnant. It was something about it being impure and against the gods. Daella did not care what reasoning stood behind it, she was simply happy she wouldn’t have to stand him laying on top of her, huffing and puffing like a pig out of breath. She loved her husband, but not when he was in her.

Now as she grew ever larger, the fear constricted her, like a serpent around her neck.  _ Mother, I want mother. _ The thought of her mother made her weepy,  _ mother knows what to say. She knows everything. _ However, the Arryns did not want to worry the queen, and Amanda would most like dull the worries as she turned them into words; so Daella decided to fashion a letter herself, in her untidy scrawl.

_ Mother come quick. I am scared and with child. I need you. Help me, please. _

Her mother did come at once. She arrived a fortnight later, on Silverwing. Dragons always scared Daella, so she did not come out to greet her mother and instead waited inside. Lady Elys and Amanda had chided her for frightening the queen, and told her that she was not the first woman to be with child, and neither would she be the last. Daella felt shameful when she realised that she had disturbed her mother for naught, and said as much when her mother greeted her, with the kind, blue eyes and honey-colored hair.

“I am sorry for worrying you, mother,” Daella said sheepishly, but her mother looked at her sternly.

“You are my child, and you are scared. I will always be here when you need me, and no concern is too small.” The words had made the little princess weep and clamber onto her mother, as if her very life depended on it. Alysanne stroked Daella’s back and comforted her, the way only a mother knows how to comfort their child. She breathed in deeply, in the crook of her mother’s neck and found the familiar scent soothing.  _ I will be alright, now that she is here.  _

Queen Alysanne’s visit and long stay, did much to lighten the princess’s spirits. Her mother knew that it would make her daughter uncomfortable if she reached out to touch her belly, out of the blue. So the queen didn’t, not until Daella offered to have her mother feel the baby move, herself. Queen Alysanne smiled and her eyes grew misty,

_ “My sweet little flower, is having a little one of her own,” the Queen said and kissed Daella’s brow.  _

Those three moons passed far too quickly, and one night, on the third moon of her mother’s stay, did Daella wake up in the hour of the wolf, screaming. It felt as if the babe had tore a hole in her, and was tearing her insides asunder, to get out. Stop, stop, stop, Daella begged. It hurt too much and she was wet. Queen Alysanne had told her daughter about the water that breaks. However, when Daella put a hand between her legs, it felt wet and sticky. When she looked at it in the candlelight, it was dark, thick and glistening a crimson red. She screamed, again.

Her mother was the first to arrive; for her bedchamber was the adjacent one. Lord Rodrik slept beneath Daella’s floors, as he did not wish to be tempted into carnal lusts. Alysanne suspected it was because he could not fathom himself to be woken and have to calm Daella in the midst of the eve--when her fears were the ripest.

“Mother,” Daella cried and could barely get the words out. “I am… I-I’m bleeding!” she screeched out in hysterics. Queen Alysanne yelled for Lord Rodrik to get the maester as he stumbled up the stairs, so down he went, yet again. Alysanne grabbed her daughter and held Daella’s head to her chest whilst whispering soothing words.

“You will be alright, my little flower. You shall see, I promise.” These Targaryens truly should not make promises, that they cannot keep. 

The Maester ordered that Daella be taken to the bedward immediately, and said that she was almost ready to push, when he examined her. He never did explain why there was so much blood, or why the princess was even bleeding. The maester also should have washed his hands with water and soap, before shoving them up a bleeding woman. Mayhaps he simply forgot, or did not think it was important.

The bedward had white sheets that smelled of sickness.  _ I don’t want to be here, take me away. Please, _ she begged. The wizened old maester who reminded Daella of a rooster was touching her everywhere, asking her questions that she could not answer.

“Get it out, please,” she begged the maester and her mother. It hurt too much, it was breaking her from within, crushing through the blood and flesh toward its freedom. 

Daella began to feel strange, sweat was dripping from her brow and being wiped away by Queen Alysanne.  _ No, please, please mother- _

“You are doing well, push, my girl. Push!” the voice sounded distant and the world seemed hazy with smoke.  _ I cannot see clearly, let me SEE. _ Daella wiped at her eyes and begged for silence to come. _ Make it quiet, make them stop.  _

“Push!” the maester ordered and Daella did what she asked. She wanted to be relieved of this crushing pain, this babe and all this noise. She wanted to sleep. _ I am tired. Let me rest, mother. Let me rest, my child. _ She pushed with all her might, with all the strength that a girl as small as her could. Daella was too little for such a pain. Oh, far too little, to come out unscathed.

Suddenly a weak cry was heard, and Daella looked up. _ Why is mother crying, is something amiss? _ No, Queen Alysanne was weeping happy tears, for her granddaughter.

“It is a girl!” the queen exclaimed and looked at Daella with those calming, blue eyes. Then the babe was handed to the little princess and she smiled. 

“Aemma. Her name is Aemma,” Daella told her mother and Queen Alysanne nodded.

“Aemma Arryn, a beautiful name, my little flower,” the queen replied with a gracious smile.

The babe had a tuft of silver-gold hair on her head, and dark, purple eyes.  _ She is so pretty. _ It was as if the babe was a doll made out of glass.

“Is she not pretty, mother?” Daella asked and Queen Alysanne nodded fervently.

“She looks just like you, my sweetling.” Daella smiled prettily at that, then the darkness came for her. It was heavy, covering and overwhelming.  _ I am just going to close my eyes. _

“Goodnight mother. I am tired.” Then it all went dark, and the princess did not hear her mother calling for the maester, or feel little Aemma being taken from her arms, moments away from being dropped onto the floors-- as Daella’s limbs had turned as blank as snow because of that horrible, consuming sleep. 

When she woke, her head felt as if a pan of hot oil had been doused atop it, so feverish did she feel. The princess groaned, but it hurt too much to weep. It hurt to move. So she laid still, but opened her eyes when she felt a cool hand on her brow.

“Mother,” she said in a raspy voice, as she was faced with Queen Alysanne’s worried eyes. 

“Daella, how do you feel?” Her mother asked and the princess felt herself grow heavy, yet again. 

“I am tired mother. So tired.” Alysanne did not know what to say, so she kissed her princess’s head, and went outside to converse with the maester. Daella fell into a lulling, fevered sleep that showed her visions of an untimely doom.

The next time she woke, she heard her mother plead with the maester.

“It was never like this when I was with any of my children, please, something is wrong” 

“She is recovering, her fever has dropped since last eve, my queen” the maester replied courteously. 

“She is not well, even a blind man could see!” the queen spit out. “You will do everything for her, that is a command,” she continued in a voice as cold as the biting winds and freezing ices of the north. 

“Yes, of course, your grace,” the maester said and the noticed Daella had woken. 

“How do you feel, my princess?” he asked and Daella shivered.

“I am cold,” she said and the stickiness of her damp skin, made her entire body crawl. 

“You look pale, my sweet. You must eat, have some honeyed tea, it will warm you” Queen Alysanne offered, as her voice wavered. Daella truly looked as if she was a dead girl amongst the living. She was cold, but covered in furs-- even that would not cease her shivering. Her skin was pale and her hair laid matted and stuck to her forehead. 

When Alysanne touched her daughter, she was scalding. It made the queen wonder, how such a small woman could emit such a heat, and still feel cold. That’s when she decided to adjust the furs, and felt something wet. When she removed her hand and looked at it, it was sticky and gleaming with blood.

“Oh, no,” Alysanne whispered but Daella did not hear her. The princess had lost consciousness again. 

“Get the damned maester!” Alysanne screamed, with a ferocity well-known for the Targaryens. The queen removed the rest of the furs and saw Daella had bled through the white sheets, and the stench of death and decay eclipsed the room. The stranger was seeking his newest addition, and gods are not to be denied. The little princess could not smell anything, but the doom that was looming in the horizon.

Suddenly a hand grasped Alysanne’s arm in such a strong grip, that the queen had to remind herself that it was only her sweet flower. Crazed, feral purple eyes met hers.

“I am scared, mother,” the girl cried and looked so young. Only a girl of seven-and-ten, she was. 

“Hush my sweet, it will all be alright,” her mother comforted her and Daella’s grip loosened. Finally, the maester arrived. 

“You damned fool!” the queen hissed at him. “She has the fever, can you not see?” the queen pointed toward the bloody, crimson mess on the bed, and her pale daughter who smelled sickly sweet, with the aroma of death.

“No.. But-- h-her fever was going down,” he stuttered. 

“It was never going down, you incapable fool!” 

“The fever has been allowed to rage for far too long, because of your incompetence.” The small queen grew terrifying in the light of dawn. 

“If she dies, I will have your chain, do you hear me?” she asked and the maester nodded, his chins following the others in an eerie sort of dance. So it was, that they did everything they could for the princess, in the coming days. Hot baths as well as cold ones were ordered, her sheets were changed daily. Visits from the newborn babe was thought to help, so Alysanne and Rodrik brought Aemma--yet the princess was  oft drained and could barely achieve the holding of Aemma.

On the fourth day of her fever, all seemed lost. The Queen was weeping over her gentle, sweet dragon, as she shivered in her bed. Lord Rodrik stood in the corner with silent, painful tears trickling down his cheeks, for he loved his little precious princess. The step-children had come to say their goodbyes, even though Alysanne was adamant, that it was not. Lady Elys seemed unbothered with the ordeal, but the younger ones wept and did so, fiercely.

That eve, Daella woke for the first time during that day and she wept as she laid there, covered in blood and marked by death. This was not like the poems and ballads, she realised. No one would hear of this. She would lay here in this foul bed, weeping crimson blood whilst the fever raged within her treacherous body as it betrayed her.  _ Live _ , she told herself, but it fell on deaf ears. That nagging, horrible and raw realisation that, she was indeed going to die, hit her like the hardest of slaps.  _ But I do not want to go.  _ Unfortunately for sweet Daella--it was not a call she had the authority to make. This was not an act worthy of songs. It was not bravery. This was tragedy.

“Mother I do not want to die,” she cried yet her voice was a whisper. Alysanne looked up and stroked her daughter’s cheek.

“You are not going to. You will be brave for me, my girl.” 

“Please,” Daella begged. “It hurts. Make it stop,” she continued in pleas yet her mind was a haze, and she oft forgot what she had been saying, after she said it. 

“I am so tired, mother,” Daella confessed and her voice grew distant, softer than it had been earlier. 

_ My time has come, to say goodbye. _ Believe the princess when she said that she did not want to. Not like this, not this young. _ I was to be a mother, _ she realised sadly.  _ I wanted to be one, as well. _ Daella didn’t want to leave like this, without having a last embrace from her father, or a blessing from Maegelle. It hurt to look upon the princess, in that wretched bed of blood. How she looked so scared and young, even younger than her years. She was but a little girl, who had been forced to grow up far too soon.

She paid the price for that. They all did.

“No. Hold on, Daella. Hold on to me,” the queen begged Daella in hysteric tears. Oh, Alysanne. To suffer the death of another one of your children, when you have lost so many. The suffering is unimaginable. Only the mothers who have, know how it feels. How it burned through your soul, charred your corpse, and constricted your heart until it was forced to harden. No mother wishes to have their child die before them. The young are meant to live. Sadly, most of the queen’s children, did not.

“Please take care of her,” Daella begged as she felt her heart slow its beats, and the world turn to a strange dream. “Please,” she continued and squeezed Alysanne’s hand with the last of her strength.

“I will,” the queen replied, tear-stained and choking with grief.  _ Good, Daella thought. Now I can sleep.  _

Sleep, she did. For all of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also; thank you guys for all of your kind comments. You're so sweet and I try to reply to the best of my abilities <3 just know I appreciate y'all and everything you have to say.


	24. There are those who die, that deserve to live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more to Rhaenys than just a pretty face.  
> There's more to Aegon than kingship.  
> There's more to Visenya than harshness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the long-awaited Rhaenys/Aegon/Visenya chapter. This was difficult to write because we don't really have an idea of how their relationship was, on a personal level. I kind of just used my interpretation of it. This has kind of a little bit of everything in it. (It's also the longest chapter i've written!)
> 
> What I want to convey is that, there was more to Rhaenys than her beauty. She was a person as well, there was something behind the mask. There always is. 
> 
> This is also an apt moment to leak that I do not believe the rumors that she was unfaithful to Aegon and that Aenys was a bastard. Sexist rumors, made up by sexist old men and jealous people. 
> 
> A/N: This will probably be the last chapter for a while, since I kind of think the past 2-3 chapters haven't been very good. I don't know, I just read them and I don't feel like they're good or that they're going the place I want them to be. It's hard to explain but basically I think they're trash lmao. 
> 
> (Wow this A/N is a mess but it's late and I can barely think)
> 
> So i'll be taking a break (Not for years or anything lol, but maybe a few weeks or so). Thank you for all your continuous support and i'm out. 
> 
> <3

 

 

 

The sunlight was streaming in from the window, basking the pale parts that it touched of Rhaenys’s skin, in a warm, golden glow. She sat up and stretched like a feline, her silver-gold hair falling in loose curls down her waist. It was early, she could still hear the birds chirping outside, and smell the morning dew, from last night’s stormy rain. _What a night it was,_ she thought as a grin touched her lips. A dragon’s roar was heard somewhere in the distance.

“Go back to sleep, Rhaenys,” her husband mumbled sleepily, as he gently tugged on the handles of her hips, to make her lay down again. His hands felt pleasurably warm, and she could feel some of the callouses as they stroked her skin. Aegon looked a true god in that moment, with his curly hair of silver-gold that fell wildly behind his ears. His eyes were closed and she could most like count all of his brown eyelashes, if she so wished. Without being aware, she reached out a hand to stroke the side of his sharp jaw. He opened an indigo eye, and then another. They looked more purple close up, she noticed; yet she saw the blue tones as clear as day.

A dark, silver eyebrow was raised and he spoke. “I thought I told you to go back to sleep, Rhae.” His voice sounded darker than usual, and more rough around the edges. _It is because he just woke up,_ she told herself.

“I am not tired,” she smiled as her violet eyes sparkled dangerously. Aegon bit the bottom of his lips as he burned through her, with those sharp eyes of his. _He does not like it when men disobey his orders, but I love the thrill of it._

Suddenly Aegon rose, grabbed her and pinned her down to the mattress, in one swift motion. Rhaenys giggled and reached out to kiss his aquiline nose, as his face hovered inches from hers. The action made him smile. A calloused finger gently brushed some of her silver-gold curls from her face, and she closed her eyes as he continued the action.

“Come on, sleep. It is the first in a while, that I have slept through the night. Damn the kingdoms, the advisors can handle it for the day,” he said and Rhaenys nodded.

“My poor, tired husband,” she pouted and Aegon bit his lip to hold back a grin.

“Yes, I am so tired. Help me sleep, please my queen,” he responded, continuing their little play. Rhaenys ran a pale hand through his silver-gold hair, and moved to push him down on his back. Aegon relished in it, otherwise he would have stood firm, atop her. _He likes it when you take control, it relieves his burden of having to rule, somewhat._

“Now what will we do, to make the king sleep?” she asked with a teasing smirk and violet eyes bright, with play. Aegon traced the side of her belly and shrugged.

“Whatever you have in mind, my queen. I am desperate.” Rhaenys leaned down, her silver-gold hair acting as a veil, and kissed his plump lips, sweetly. Aegon gripped her waist harder and soon began to breathe heavily. His lips were scalding, and soon she brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck, and his lips moved there, biting gently. Rhaenys let out a sound of raw satisfaction at that, and it only urged her king on. Soon  his hand moved downward, and touched her the way he knew she liked.

“Was last night not enough for you?” A new voice demanded. Rhaenys turned but Aegon continued his incessant touches. _Stop it, it is rude, Aegon,_ she wanted to chide but no words escaped her mouth. Harsh eyes of true purple met her violet ones. They softened as they took Rhaenys in, however.

“Good morning, Senya,” Rhaenys breathed as she closed her eyes and bit her lip, when Aegon touched a particularly sensitive spot.

Suddenly, her husband gently pushed her into Visenya’s arms, as he kissed further and further down her body, leaving a wicked and wanton lust in its wake. It made Rhaenys giggle, how the Westerosi court and their false gods would be horrified at what took place in their chambers last eve, and this morn. They were not Westerosi, however and in the Valyrian freehold, this had been as common as breaking fast. _Truly the world’s development has regressed since the days of our noble and fierce ancestors._

Visenya smoothed out Rhaenys’s hair that laid in her naked lap, and leaned down to kiss her wife. It was softer than what Visenya would give Aegon, for she knew that Rhaenys liked her kisses sweet and actions harsh. The smell of Valyrian incense from before the doom, was heavy in the room and filled it with a dizzying effect. Rhaenys could hardly think of anything, but the lips on her own, and those on her thighs, etching upward.

She gasped when she felt Aegon bite her thigh more harshly than before, but the pain brought upon a twisted sort of pleasure, so she arched her back and allowed Visenya’s hands to travel all over her body.

“That will leave marks, Aegon!” she reprimanded him, his response was to bite even harder than before, Rhaenys pulled his hair in retaliation and he groaned.

“No one else will see them, so why are you worried?” Visenya asked in a smooth voice.

“I do not know,” she whined and felt her wrists sting from Visenya’s constraints. _She said the gods of Valyria demanded it, for their services and they did not disappoint._ Last eve had been a haze of blood and lust and fire. Aegon did not usually take both of them to bed, but sometimes his lusts and their whispers, became too much for even a man such as him, to be able to take. _He is a man of separate cravings, sometimes he wants it sweet and wanton, sometimes he wants it dark, ominous and harsh. These cravings clash on the occasion, creating this._

Last eve had been highly unusual however, as they had all participated, which did not occur often. Aegon occasionally enjoyed watching her and Visenya, taking one of them after, but this was almost entirely new; only having been done twice or so before. _I hope he wishes to again, soon._

Her own screams brought her out of her inner thoughts, and soon she was laying in Visenya’s arms, gasping as if she had ran a thousand acres. _He is getting very excellent at this, but then again, he always was._ A pleasant calm and daze covered her as if she was on a bed of spring roses. Aegon stroked her thigh with his hand and then looked to Visenya. _He craves his due, as well,_ Rhaenys thought.

He moved to get on top of Visenya as she placed Rhaenys on the middle of the bed, as they occupied the lower parts of it. That was a mistake on Aegon’s part. Visenya moved swift as a snake, pushing him down and straddling him, her long, silver-gold hair falling down her back in an even, tight braid.

“I am the oldest. Know your place, husband,” she replied seductively and pressed the identical crimson slash he had on his wrist, until it began bleeding. Aegon hissed and kissed her harshly. Visenya’s hand grew crimson as it bathed in his blood. Rhaenys could barely keep her eyes open by then.

The last thing she saw before she fell asleep, was Visenya dragging her hand along Aegon’s pale chest, adorned with a warrior’s muscles, until it turned bloody from her rough touch. Their husband grew crazed and feverish from the ordeal, and any provocations only further unleashed the dragon within. With a dazed smile, the youngest Targaryen fell asleep, content and comfortable.

It was midday the next time she woke, between Aegon and Visenya, with her face in the crook of Visenya’s neck. Her sister was awake, she knew, for there was a gentle hand running up and down Rhaenys’s body. _She could never stay still, and it always brought her comfort, so I indulge her touches._ Rhaenys embraced Visenya fiercely, clambering onto her like a little kitten in need of affection. 

“You are especially clingy this day,” Visenya said but Rhaenys could hear the smile in her voice, the soft way in which she spoke the words. She liked it when Visenya was like this, vulnerable and raw-- _able to admit how much she loves us._

“You love it when I am,” Rhaenys responded teasingly and she felt Visenya kiss her shoulder.

“I do. But do not tell Aegon, or he will think I have turned soft.” Rhaenys giggled and nodded; then they both heard Aegon stir.

“Do not tell me what?” he asked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Nothing,” Rhaenys replied as she untangled herself from Visenya’s arms and into Aegon’s--not before sharing a knowing smile with her sister.

“As your king, I demand you to tell me,” he said evenly as he kissed her cheek in greeting.

“Well, if my king demands it,” Rhaenys began innocently. “We were discussing how you are less than satisfactory,” she continued in an indifferent tone and heard Aegon laugh into the crook of her neck. She breathed in and he smelled of sweat and himself; something that reminded her of safety and home. An intoxicating combination.

“Is that so?” he asked dangerously and Rhaenys nodded.

“He is just the biggest bore, is he not? Always so rigid and tired with that stick up his arse,” she looked to Visenya, who nodded encouragingly. She switched her voice to mimic a man’s in her next statement and it made even Visenya laugh.

“No Rhaenys… I do not have time, I have to rule. Go play somewhere else. Come here Rhaenys, I want you. Stop it, these Dornishmen need to be dealt with, I have to converse with the lords and sit on the iron throne and look menacing with my big, scary dragon whom they call the dread,” she said, enjoying her theatrics and enunciation of certain words like ‘scary’ and ‘dread’

Aegon looked unimpressed, but Visenya was basking in the scenery and Rhaenys’s provocations. Their husband decided to retaliate with his own mummer’s show. He grabbed some of Rhaenys’s long locks and put them on his head, letting his voice take on a high, irritating pitch. _That is not my voice at all,_ Rhaenys thought as a wide smile touched her heart-shaped face.

“Oh Aegon, fuck me please,” he said wantonly and fluttered his lashes whilst pouting. Visenya snorted from the other side and let out a giggle, out of character for her usually stern nature. Aegon did not stop there. “Oh it is so tedious, isn’t it, Senya? To commission pretty gems and gowns all day, and bankrupting my husband, who is doing everything to ensure the stability of the realm he conquered. Oh, what a wretched life I have been given, save me!” then for a more dramatic effect, Aegon closed his eyes and leaned back, feigning extreme anguish.

“You are being dramatic,” Rhaenys said as she rolled her eyes and Aegon looked at Visenya confusedly but she shrugged her shoulders.

“I am being dramatic? Me?” he asked in shock. “Have you heard yourself?” Rhaenys only giggled and playfully punched his shoulders. He dragged her down to him, but suddenly a knock was at the door. Aegon threw the sheets to Visenya and Rhaenys, as he put on a robe.

“This will not be long, my wives.” “ Well, knowing these lords and their love to spite me, disregard my earlier statement,” he continued after a second thought.

Yet there was no lord or advisor outside the chambers--merely three maids, one young and two were old crones. _She is pretty in a common way,_ Rhaenys thought of the young one.

“We’re here to clean m’king,” the oldest said and Aegon nodded. The young maid looked in awe of the king and rightfully so. _He is more of the stuff of gods, than mortal men._ The girl blushed a beet-red, contrasting with her black hair, as she saw the two naked women in the bed, covered only by a flimsy sheet.

“Don’t stare, Myra,” one of the older ones chided the girl in a harsh whisper that Aegon did not seem to hear or pay attention to, as he poured himself a goblet of wine from the flagon in their chambers. The robe was showing a delicious piece of his sculpted chest and Rhaenys’s fingers were itching to touch it. Noticing her gaze, he simply smiled wickedly and saluted her with the goblet.

“I would also like some, “ Rhaenys said and the young maid moved to pour her a glass, but Aegon put a calming hand on her shoulder.

“It is alright, I shall fetch it.” The girl nearly seemed to explode right then and there, from a simple touch of his. Rhaenys had to bite her lip to stifle a giggle. _To be young, clumsy and inexperienced again; where any man’s touch would send you into a frenzy._

Rhaenys decided to rise and look for her gown. _It is here somewhere, I was wearing it last eve._ Aegon came to stand behind her, as she was bent down and looking underneath the bed. She felt his hand on her lower back, as well as him on her backside.

“What?” she asked as she rummaged through the chest for a slip or any piece of clothing that could maintain what little modesty she had left.

“If they had been men, I would have been forced to slay them, to protect your honor as well as mine,” he said evenly. Rhaenys scoffed.

“It is only a body Aegon, and they are two crones and a girl no older than seven-and-ten.”

“Well that body belongs to me,” he said with a smile and she shook her head.

“Not just you.” Her husband disregarded it, and instead leaned closer to whisper some choice words.

“That girl is more red than the fires of old Valyria, all to the courtesy of you being Rhaenys of house Targaryen,” he whispered wickedly. Rhaenys laughed as she found two black shifts for her and Visenya to wear.

“She nearly imploded when you touched her. I found it sweet,” Rhaenys said good-naturedly.

“Perhaps we should invite her to our play?” Rhaenys asked, in jest.

“No. I fear it will always be you, that I will give myself to, wives.” His tone bore a sincere honesty and it made her heart flutter. She kissed him on the cheek before donning her shift.

“Here, Senya,” Rhaenys said as she flung the shift to her sister.

“Took you long enough,” Visenya responded in a bored voice and Rhaenys decided to be snarky back.

“Well go naked then, for all I care.”

“No need to be so bitter, sweet sister,” Visenya responded with a smirk but her eyes bore kindness. _I love you and I love Aegon. I love all of you far too much, and that is a dangerous thing to do._

Rhaenys stood and walked over to the girl named Myra, with a seductive and feline grace.

“You are pretty,” Rhaenys said as she twirled some of the girl’s hair, aware of the eyes on her body.

“Thank you m-m-my queen,” the poor girl stammered and Rhaenys took pity on her. _Such a sweet young woman._

“Are you enjoying your position as a cleaning-maid?” Rhaenys asked, perplexed. _I wish to help where I can, for women are some of the most unfortunate creatures on this earth. They deserve more than they are given._ She found herself so inexplicably grateful to Aegon, that he had never undermined her on the account of her sex. _He conquered the kingdoms with us, we fought and bled by his side. Let the historians and withered old maesters call it ‘Aegon’s Conquest’ the three of us know, that it was ours._

“Yes, your grace. Tis very kind of you t’let me work here,” the girl said with gentle, green eyes. Rhaenys smiled and stroked the girl’s cheek.

“I can always arrange for you to be given the role as a handmaiden.”

“If it please your grace. I would be very grateful,” the maid named Myra said, with a soft smile.

“Then let me see what I can arrange,” Rhaenys replied with a twinkle in her violet eyes

“Myra, these floor will not scrub themselves, insolent girl!” One of the crones yelled at the girl, breaking her and the queen’s moment. The action made the queen purse her lips.

“I was having a word with her. The fault is mine, do not chastise her so harshly.” Her words sounded cool and distant, void of their usual warmth. The old woman stuttered and sputtered before bowing and apologising. _Good_.

“You have my leave,” Rhaenys said softly and the girl scurried off to scrub the floors.

When Rhaenys turned around, she saw Visenya’s hard face don a raised eyebrow.

“Are you picking up strays again?” her sister asked and Rhaenys shook her head.

“I was simply being kind. She is young and deserves more from life, than being a cleaning-maid and dying in childbirth after some knight got her with a bastard.” Such were the tragic endings of many a women. _I will not have a part in making that true._

“Did anyone ever tell you, that you have too much of a gentle heart?” Visenya asked, not unkindly.

“Once or twice, perhaps,” Rhaenys replied with a coy smile as she corrected her shift. _Where did Aegon run off to?_ Visenya walked up to her, with an austere sort of grace and stroked her youngest sibling’s cheek. The action made the queen close her eyes and sigh.

“That may prove a disadvantage one day, I fear” her sister said and the words sounded so somber and troubling upon the warrior queen’s tongue.

“Not today.”

“No, not today,” Visenya replied and embraced her small sister.

Suddenly, Aegon made his appearance from the adjacent chamber. _He looks troubled._

“The Dornish have been seen rallying their armies,” he said with a weary sigh and a hand through his delightfully messy silver curls. Rhaenys frowned.

“We burn them to a man, if they provoke an attack,” Visenya said, steel lacing each and every one of her words.

“Let us not be so rash, Senya,” Rhaenys said. “Let them have their army, show them that the dragons are benevolent. If they do provoke us, let them have a taste of Meraxes’s fires, but only a taste,” she continued as she put a calming hand on Visenya’s shoulder.

“That sounds apt, Rhaenys. Yet it is Balerion’s, whom they’ll taste. I will not risk you, even atop Meraxes.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I failed to bring Dorne to you, their burden falls to me.” Aegon knew that he would never be able to argue against his younger queen when she was set in her ways, so he simply nodded. It was an argument to be taken up, a different time.

“I will have a bath, before I need to inform the advisors and hand of this plan. I was hoping to have one day to be free, but alas, the crown is heavy and waits for no one.” Rhaenys walked up to her weary husband and enveloped him in a warm hug, that she hoped he found somewhat soothing. Aegon exhaled loudly and gripped her tight, for he felt in over his head, and his boat was capsizing. They won the conquest, but keeping the crown and kingdoms proved far more difficult.

“Mayhaps one of you will join me, or both? If I dare to dream,” he laughed but there was no mirth to his tone. _Oh, my sweet husband. You of all, deserve a break from this constant headache._ It tore at Aegon, she saw. Yet he had known what they were getting into, from the very start. _He never complains, he takes everything in stride._

“Perhaps,” Rhaenys allowed with a coy smile and leaned in to put a quick, chaste kiss on her husband’s cheek. He let out an incoherent sound and indigo eyes filled her violet vision.

“Do I need to command you?” he asked, in a regal voice.

“Do so, and I cannot promise that you, or choice parts of you, will remain unscathed.”

“Is that so?” he asked incredulously, but she detected a hint of amusement in his words.

“It is very much so, husband,” she replied.

“How about you, Senya?” Rhaenys asked good-naturedly and her sister shook her head.

“I have more important things to tend to, than silly baths. We had enough play for quite some time, do you not think?” she asked in indifference. _Always so harsh, Senya._

“There is always room for more,” Aegon said and Visenya nodded.

“For you, perhaps.” Then she moved to kiss Rhaenys and Aegon on their cheeks, and quietly took her leave. _It is as if she was never here._

Aegon and Rhaenys broke their fast as the maids were filling the great, porcelain tub.

“I want it scalding,” she reminded them, and they looked a bit horrified. They nodded, nonetheless and did as they were bid. _The heat is a comfort, to us Targaryens. We are of the blood of Old Valyria, the last of the dragon’s children._

_Fire to them, is death. Fire to us, is life._

Aegon kept her busy with stories of their childhood, and how the matters of state were faring.

“I also commissioned you an amethyst necklace, crafted in Lys. It is a beauty, and will do much for your eyes,” he said, almost shyly-- _as if he is begging my approval._

“I thought I was bankrupting you by commissioning myself these extravagant items, and here you are, doing it yourself. How come?” she asked, teasingly.

“Allowances can be made on the occasion,” he laughed but then turned serious.

“I will do anything to see you smile. Anything. I will give my life for yours, and cursed be the one who tries to steal you from me.” Those simple words held a fearsome power and Rhaenys felt something sink in the bottom of her stomach. _We’ll burn for this cursed love, I feel it. I know it._

“Whatever happens, know I love you. Until my death, I swear it.” She felt tears brimming in her eyes, as she spoke the words. “But do not ever put yourself in danger, for me,” she continued, almost pleading. The stench of the unknown and aroma of doom, hung heavy between them

“Do not weep, my love,” he said as he wiped a tear that had escaped her eyes, with a calloused thumb. She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes. _It hurts to love as fiercely as I do you, and Visenya. Love is monstrous and often leaves no one alive to tell its tales. They say the most beautiful love, is the one that is doomed._

“It will not come to that, I promise,” her husband said with strength lacing each of his words. _He refuses to believe anything could come betwixt us. It is foolish, and he must know. We have made many enemies._

“You do not know that,”she said and rose, walking into the bathing chamber where the maids had just finished emptying the last bucket of water into the tub.

“You are dismissed, thank you,” Rhaenys said and made a dismissive motion with her hands. They all scurried away, and she removed the thin, silky, black shift and climbed into the tub.The heat felt soothing, and she hissed in pleasure, as they undid the knots that plagued her body. _If only life could be as rewarding as a hot bath,_ she found herself thinking. _Everything would be so much simpler._ Rhaenys twitched when she felt a large hand on her shoulder, but quickly realised it was Aegon.

“I am supposed to be the weary and melancholy one, not you,” he told her and she laughed, for what else could she do? Then she heard the soft sound of a robe being discarded down onto the hard tiles, and a warm presence joined her in the bath. Long, slender fingers began massaging her hair, and then he poured some flower extract and combed it through her hair. _Aegon always loved washing my hair, he said it was a comfort, and who am I to deny him that?_

“That feels pleasant,” Rhaenys said and sighed softly. Aegon laughed and kissed her cheek, from behind her.

“You were always easy to please. You are like a little kitten, loving all the attention that is given to you, and rejoicing in it; no matter how small it is.”

“If I am a kitten, what is Visenya?” Rhaenys found herself asking. A smile played on her lips.

“She is a panther, seductive but dangerous and loyal to her own. You are her cub.”

“And you?”

“Why I am the big bad dragon,” he whispered seductively into her ear and she leaned back as he poured water over her hair. His hard chest felt smooth behind her back, his arms strong and secure.

“Save the seduction for Visenya,” she giggled as she turned around to splash some water backward, into his face. Somehow, wet and dripping, his face looked even more comely

“Visenya loves the thrill of the hunt, indeed,” he said as he nuzzled her neck. Sometimes Visenya’s more seductive presence, made Rhaenys feel inadequate. It seemed a cruel game, on the occasion, and the prize was their husband’s undivided attention. Visenya loved Rhaenys more than Aegon, but that did not stop her from craving him, and Rhaenys often stole him from her. Sure Rhaenys was beautiful, but so was Visenya, and she had the seductive charm. Memories of when Aegon and Rhaenys broke their fast, after their betrothal was announced, came uninvited.

* * *

_“Oh, please!” Visenya sneered at her brother. “You fucked her and now you want to wed her.” The words cut Rhaenys harder than steel._

_“And you,” Visenya said with a finger pointed at her. “You had your eyes set on him from the start, and used what’s between your legs to secure him, do not deny it.” Tears flooded her violet vision, for she hated being reprimanded by her sister._

_“I love him, as I do you,” Rhaenys said gloomily._

_“Him or his cock within you?,” Visenya asked, cruelly._

_“Cease your cruel commentary, Rhaenys has done nothing wrong,” Aegon said in a powerful roar._

_“Oh sweet brother. You wanted to fuck our sister before any other man did, the gods know she would not have held onto her virtue for long, otherwise. Or did you give it to Orys?” Visenya scoffed._

_“Stop,” Rhaenys said but Visenya was of the dragon’s blood, and there’s no stopping the dragon once it begins. However, that holds true for all dragons._

_“You will not speak of or to Rhaenys and me that way, I will not stand for it!” Aegon was fuming but Visenya only laughed derangedly and walked up to him. They were almost of a height._

_“What are you going to do, brother?” she sneered. “Strike me and I will feed you to Vhagar, go ahead, try it,” she mocked. Aegon looked hard as Valyrian steel and his eyes were full of anger. Visenya leaned into Aegon, to brush her lips against his ear and whisper cruel words._

_“You always lusted for her, you wanted Rhaenys the way every other man wants her.” Her teeth grazed Aegon’s ear before wickedly finishing her sentence. “Beneath them, screaming.”_

_“Do not act this way,” Aegon reprimanded her, as he pushed her away._

_“Act what way, sweet brother?” She asked in mock-obliviousness._

_“Why don’t you go back to fucking our sister? The gods know, that is all you are good for.” Then their sister took her leave._

* * *

_It seems a lifetime ago, entirely._ Her sister’s scorn had stuck with Rhaenys, for a long time after that. _I know she loves me, but for her to say those things, to spawn them into existence. It wounded me, and I still bear the scars._ Warm kisses brought her out of her state of reminiscence.

“What’s with the long face?” Aegon asked her, stroking her forehead and putting a soft kiss on her brow.

Rhaenys smiled. “Nothing. Everything has been faring well, and that frightens me a little.”

“Because all good things must come to an end?” her husband asked her, twirling a strand of her silver-gold curls, betwixt his fingers.

“Yes. The horizon is looking perilous,” she confessed.

“I will not let anything hurt us,” he said fiercely. Broken promises are oft borne out of love, or so the poets say.

“You will take care of this house, no matter what happens. We are the last of the dragon’s pure blood. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Aegon said with a voice full of affection. Rhaenys grabbed the washcloth, turned and began to smoothly drag it along his back. She could feel the rippling muscles, the raw strength he possessed from the tip of her fingers.

“I never want to leave,” Aegon sighed and leaned into her soft touch. “Let us stay here forever. Damn the kingdoms, damn the people.” he laughed, but Rhaenys knew that he did not mean it. _A beautiful dream, but dreams are the death of duty._

“Our skin would prune up until we transformed into old crones,” she laughed.

“It sounds like a good bargain to me,” Aegon said amiably and kissed her until she was out of breath.

***

“Duty calls,” Rhaenys said, breaking apart from her husband. The water had turned a lukewarm, swirling mess of murky grey-blue. Aegon groaned and felt strangely incomplete, once his wife had untangled herself from him.

“Will you be holding court today?” he asked her, as he dried his hair with one of the towels. Rhaenys, who was doing the same, shook her head.

“No, I will be doing that tomorrow. Today I have to attend on my ladies, singers and comely poets,” she teased. _Aegon does not like it when he hears of the comely men I surround myself with. What can I say? I admire beauty, and want it around me._

“I truly hope poems, are all they fashion, Rhaenys,” her husband said warningly. She sauntered over to him, rejoicing in how his damp curls felt between her fingers.

“You are the comeliest of them all,” she whispered. “I am yours, I have always been,” she said as she kissed down his chest and pushed him against the wall. Slowly, she descended to her knees--then his hands were in her hair, pulling and grabbing, whilst sounds too scandalous to even describe, escaped his lips.

“I love you,” he breathed.

“I know.”

***

Lady Clarissa, Lady Jeyne and a few other noblewomen waited for the queen, by their designated table. The warrior queen was nowhere to be found, but Rhaenys had not expected Visenya to attend. _She was made for battle, training and sorcery. I was made for Aegon, for dancing, singing and poetry; this._ The three siblings were as unlike each other as night to day; yet they made a surprisingly stable fit.

“You are unusually tardy, my queen. John Jolly has already sung your favorites,” Lady Jeyne told her, with a smile and Rhaenys giggled.

“Then he will have to sing them again, I fear.” Lady Clarissa smirked before replying to the queen.

“I am sure he holds no quarrels, with that prospect.” So it was, that John Jolly began singing again, and the queen rejoiced in his silky, smooth voice. _Aegon sang like this, when we were but children, and not yet kings and queens--on Dragonstone._

“How are the children, Jeyne?” Rhaenys asked as the voice of poets and singers washed over her, dulling her senses and calming her soul. Lady Jeyne was a plump, homely woman but her wits were sharp and she had an undenying charm that bound people to her.

“Elissa and Robyn are well. They are on the cusp of man and womanhood-- with all the trouble it brings,” the lady sighed in her weariness.

“You have to remind me when their namedays are, and I will have a gift or two comissioned. It is not everyday you become a man. Or a woman, for that matter,” Rhaenys said, remembering when she had first flowered, and the lusty glances of both Aegon and the knights of their household.

“That is kind of you, my queen,” the plump lady responded.

“And your husband, Lady Clarissa. Is he well?” she asked the tall, haughty woman with blue eyes.

“He is well...but he frequents the brothels far too much, if you ask me,” she told the queen in a whisper. Rhaenys frowned, but was well-versed in the nature of men. _Poor Clarissa, wed at four-and-ten, to a man with more than fifteen years on her. She has still not grown great with child...well neither have I,_ the queen thought sadly, as the dark cloud of barreness hung over her. _I want to give Aegon his heir, but my womb does not seem to be in a rush, to do so._

“They say the best wives are those who are whores for their husbands. I for one, have found that to be quite accurate,” Lady Jeyne said bawdily. Rhaenys snorted and almost choked on her wine, as Lady Jeyne’s brown eyes seemed to glint in her direction.

“A worthy contribution to this conversation, as always, Lady Jeyne,” Rhaenys laughed and felt her spirits lifting. _She knows how to make me smile, even when I feel as if the sun has been swallowed by the earth._

“You love my aged wisdom, my queen,” Lady Jeyne said with a snort and Rhaenys nodded, her violet eyes glistening with mirth. “I do, I do.”

“How do you keep King Aegon from straying from your bed?” Lady Clarice asked, her eyes desperate for any advice that could prevent her acquiring the pox. Rhaenys thought for a few moments, mulling it over, by help of her wine. _He does stray from mine, into Visenya’s and vice versa. Yet he does not frequent brothels, which he knows would make him a eunuch, if either of us found out._

“You blathering fool,” Lady Jeyne cackled. “The king has two wives, he needs not stray from their beds, have you gazed upon the queens? Such beauty is not tossed aside for a pox-ridden whore who has spread her legs for thousands of men!” Brown eyes closed and she put a hand on her heart, to steady her erratic breaths from laughing too harshly. Even Rhaenys had to bite back a smile. _I would not have worded it like that, but it rings quite true, nonetheless._

“Forgive me, but I was not asking you,” Lady Clarissa spit out at the older woman, who continued laughing amiably. _It is not out of scorn, Jeyne has a good heart and too sharp a tongue for her own good, sometimes._

“I am wanton and willing when he wishes me to be. It is hard not to be, if you’ve ever gazed upon him, in all of his glory.” “It helps that we love and care for each other dearly, as well. We grew up together, our life is one.” Lady Clarissa felt a stab of jealousy at that. She wished she would have been so beautiful, like the queens. To have had a young, strong and comely man, paying attendance on her until she was spent with love. Unfortunately, all the gods gave her, was a fat, stinking lordling who thought with his cock and struck with his hands.

“Do not take offense, but may I speak plainly?” Lady Clarice asked, as the other ladies were conversing and drinking. Jeyne was keenly listening to the gossip, as well. _This may prove interesting, Rhaenys_ thought, so she nodded.

“Doesn’t it ever bother you?” she asked and Rhaenys furrowed her brows. _What?_

“I mean...that he is your brother, and the queen, your sister?” The poor woman had turned completely red as she asked the question. The queen popped a cherry in her mouth, before replying.

“No,” she responded. “It is our way of life. We are the last of the great freehold, of dragons and gods. Wedding brother-to-sister was customary for those who rode dragons. We are not of the same blood as you andals, and it needs to remain pure.” The lady nodded, but Rhaenys still continued. “And we love each other. I am whole, with him.”

“And the warrior queen, as well--if the gossiping maids can be believed,” Lady Jeyne said with suggestive eyebrows. _Someone will have her tongue, if she does not learn to keep it to herself. Everyone is not as lenient as I._

“You will have care of your words, Lady Jeyne.” Rhaenys tone was unyielding, yet an amused smile, still grazed her lips. The other lady, with the haughty face and blue eyes, gasped in shock.

“Speak plainly, Lady Clarissa,” Rhaenys said as she nibbled on a strawberry, and watched the singers sing.

“You lay with the Queen Visenya as well?” she asked, as if it was some horrible secret. Rhaenys rolled her eyes.

“We are all wed to each other.” _Aegon taught me to never answer questions directly, that may bear seeds for gossip. Let them form their own opinions, and take their tongue if they wave it around, too loudly._

“But.. what about the Faith? It is sinful for woman to lay with woman, is it not?”

“Queen Rhaenys is no mere woman,” Lady Jeyne said, watching the younger lady, keenly.

“Then half of the whores in Lys and King’s Landing would surely be turned to ashes by the gods, would they not? I fear your husband’s favorites would disintegrate, as well,” Rhaenys said absentmindedly, bored already, with the conversation.

“May the gods have mercy,” Lady Clarissa whispered, as if it was a prayer. Queen Rhaenys frowned and thought of having Clarissa dismissed. _Her tongue wags too far and loudly, and it does not belong to me. Jeyne’s may be bawdy, but at least I am sure of its loyalties._ She sat up and straightened her back, simultaneously smoothing out her skirts.

“We are the blood of the dragon. We are gods. Save us your prayers.” Her words were like a dagger to the heart, and Lady Jeyne quickly began speaking of other matters. _Mayhaps i’ll be merciful and let her stay. She is young, and does not truly know what it is, that she is speaking of._

After a few hours of empty talk, poetry and songs; the queen felt fiercely bored and wished to take to the skies, atop Meraxes. In the air, Rhaenys was no longer a queen or burdened. She was free, relieved of everything and one with the air; one with her dragon. _I am the breeze in the wind, a leaf of a tree, soaring wherever the horizon takes me._ It was like a glorious dance, to ride a dragon. _One you never tire of._ What a wonder it must have been, to fly. _I am gifted beyond measure, to be able to do so._

After being dressed in her riding clothes, courtesy of the maids; she calmly enjoyed the walk to the guarded patch of land, where their dragons were allowed to dwell. _A dragonpit, if you will._ She saw Meraxes first, with the shining, silver-scales and wise, golden eyes. _Intelligent creatures, dragons are._ Meraxes knew Rhaenys, almost better than she knew herself. It knew whether she was happy, sad or angry. Melancholy, weary or tired. Whether to fly fast, far, far away--or slower, so that the rider could enjoy the world from above.

“Hello my fierce one,” Rhaenys greeted as Meraxes let out a sound, surprisingly gentle for a dragon. She brushed some dirt off of her tightly-wound riding breeches, and reached out to gently caress Meraxes’s snout. The dragon slowly closed its eyes and Rhaenys moved to rest her head against its cheek. _My sweet dragon._

“Where are your siblings?” Rhaenys asked, as she could not spot either Vhagar or Meraxes.

“Somewhere playing, no doubt. Balerion loves to act tough, but he’s soft for you and Vhagar. I suppose we all have to keep up appearances, do you not think?” The dragon did not respond, but simply looked into Rhaenys’s violet eyes, with ones of melting gold. They conveyed a sort of lulling calm, almost hypnotizing.

“Now let us take to the skies. If you would be so kind as to let me climb up your wing?” The Dragon bent down and lowered a sparkling, silvery wing.

“Good,” Rhaenys smiled as she grabbed a hold to one of the scales, and climbed up. She strapped herself into the saddle, and beckoned her dragon to fly.

“Sōvēs! Sōvēs!” Meraxes did not have to be told twice, and with a roar, sprung into action, and then, they were the wind.

What words could describe such a feeling? She was weightless, soaring through the sky, as quick as the wind. Her hair flew behind her, a blur of silver and gold. _Yes! Yes! Faster!_ It was as if Meraxes knew what she was thinking, so it flew even faster, circling the castle with a mighty roar.

“I’ll take you to the Summer isles, one day. Let us see what is beyond!” she screamed in bliss, but the words could barely be heard. There was nothing but the biting, snapping wind and red cheeks. The queen burned as bright as the sun, that afternoon.

Only when the sun had almost set in the west, did she return to the ground, stumbling down her dragon. _When you are in the air long enough, you forget what it feels like to be on the ground and of the earth. How I used to wish that I could be a dragon,_ Rhaenys reminisced, fondly. _Instead I got to ride one, and that is the greatest compromise of all._

With a last kiss to the snout, and a few kind words, she left Meraxes behind.

 _I wonder where Senya has been hiding, this day._ A wicked smile touched Rhaenys’s features, and somehow it made her even more beautiful, in the light of dusk. _I should visit and annoy her. She detests being disturbed._ The queen knew that her sister would not send her away, for her heart was soft, when it came to Rhaenys. _They call her cruel and harsh, unyielding--but she loves us, and me. Visenya is softer and more affectionate, when it is only us two._ The warrior queen despised showing weakness, even when it came to her own family. _Love is weakness, to her_. It was rare for even Rhaenys, the one we could argue was the most beloved by Queen Visenya; to break down those harsh walls of hers.

Off Rhaenys went, on a quest to find her sister. It was quite tiresome, as it took several tries to locate her austere sister. Visenya was not in their shared chambers, neither in Aegon’s or Rhaenys’s. The queen decided to look in the great hall, and then the courtyard. The most obvious would have been to search for her sister, in Visenya’s own chambers--but somehow the thought did not strike the queen. _Visenya usually does not spend much time there._ Alas, she was out of options and decided to will her feet to travel there.

An ominous sort of chanting greeted Rhaenys, from beyond the oaken door. _Is she sacrificing something to the Valyrian gods?_ Rhaenys wondered. Never the pious one, Rhaenys had developed a new sort of respect for the gods of old, after the ceremony with Visenya and Aegon. _Gods here, gods there. Everyone has gods that they think are true. I believe, when I see._ Last eve, she had seen. That frightened her, somewhat.

Not wanting to disturb Visenya in her ceremony, Rhaenys patiently waited until the chanting ceased, and all grew quiet. She knocked thrice, and Visenya opened with a look that could curdle milk, yet when she saw that it was her sister, her face simply turned blank. Rhaenys smiled charmingly.

“Senya,” she said and kissed Visenya’s cheek, before moving to enter the chambers and threw herself on the soft bed.

“I see you did not need my leave to enter.”

“No, I did not,” Rhaenys smiled. “I am bored.”

“Entertain yourself, then,” Visenya said with an arched eyebrow.

“I would much rather you do.” Violet eyes sparkled dangerously, in the candlelight.

“What was it you were doing?” Rhaenys asked as she changed the subject. The scent of incense and smoke was heavy in the room. Not quite the same as last eve, but it’s dizzying, nonetheless.

“A few sacrifices, the gods demand-”

“-Their due, yes, Senya. So you’ve said,” Rhaenys said teasingly as she corrected her riding top, which hung loose on her shoulders.

“Aegon was searching for you earlier.” Her sister moved to put away some candles that were black as the scales on Balerion.

“Why?” Rhaenys asked and Visenya shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps he wanted to gift you that necklace he commissioned, or fuck you. Both, I'd wager.”

“There is no need to be so crude, Senya,” Rhaenys scolded with pursed lips.

“Life is not a song, sweet Rhaenys. It is crude, otherwise you have not lived.” Visenya finished putting the candles away and sat down next to Rhaenys.

“Don’t they sting when you bleed?” Rhaenys asked delicately as she saw her sister’s wrist had a few light cuts, dripping scarlet. Visenya brushed some of Rhaenys’s locks behind her ear and smiled stiffly.

“All pain can be turned into pleasure, if only one knows how,” her sister said and reached over to grab a piece of cloth from her nightstand-- tightly winding it around her bleeding wrist.

Rhaenys sighed and leaned into Visenya, letting her worries wash away like waves, but there was something nagging at her, wearing her down and even her sister could feel it.

“What has you so on edge, sister?” Rhaenys did not wish to talk about it. _If I should try to, I would only weep._

“Nothing,” Rhaenys responded and let a false smile transform her features. Visenya saw straight through it, burning her purple eyes into her younger sister’s violet ones.

“It is foolish and childish.” Visenya still looked demanding, urging her to continue with only a gaze. “I think I am barren,” she whispered and the words hung heavy in the air, choking her and twisting her heart. _Admitting it out loud, makes it more real, somehow._ The tears came uninvited, and the pain spread--even in isolation, and  it brought upon only desolation. _Stop being so weak_ , she pleaded with herself. _You are the dragon’s daughter, and a dragon does not weep._

“I just want to please him, to give him his heir,” she said and all her confidence was gone. All the usual mirth and playfulness. No one saw how this tore at Rhaenys, how it completely ruined her. _What a beautiful face to look at, they say. What a goddess of a woman, and what a shame that the king has to content with a barren wife. Two barren wives,_ she reminded herself. Visenya had still not procured an heir for her husband, either.

“Are we cursed?” she asked Visenya, with silent tears running down her handsome face.

“No, my sweet,” Visenya said and it sounded almost soft, _almost gentle._

“He is disappointed in me, no matter how much he tries to conceal it.” Visenya grabbed her chin steadily and looked into her eyes.

“He loves you, whether you birth him a son or not. It does not plague his mind, or keep him up at night. He is happy to simply have you, to love and hold.” Rhaenys lowered her eyes and looked at the complex patterns that covered the bedsheet. She could not stand to look into Visenya’s eyes.

“Look at me, Rhaenys.” Her face was forced to meet her sister’s again.

“You are not barren.”

“How would you know?” She asked as bitter tears kept steadily flowing. Like a steady river of pain and insufficiency.

“Do you trust me?” Visenya asked her.

“Yes.”

“Then believe my words. You will come to bear a child, I promise you that.” What words were left, to say it?

“Dry your tears, sweet Rhaenys and let us get you out of these riding clothes, shall we?” Visenya asked but already began unlacing Rhaenys’s breeches and riding top. Then she rummaged through a chest and handed a shivering and naked Rhaenys, a red nightgown.

“Have you eaten?” Visenya asked and Rhaenys shook her head.

“You mustn’t forget to, Rhaenys.” It still made Rhaenys blush, to be scolded.

Visenya ordered them some hot soup from the kitchens and they ate in silence. Visenya knew when her sister did not feel like keeping up pretenses, or conversating--so she left her be. The soup was delightful, and Rhaenys soon found herself warm and content. Sleep began to engulf her in a swift, comforting motion.

“Come on,” her sister beckoned a half-asleep Rhaenys, up on the bed again.

Rhaenys all but collapsed underneath the covers, it had been a long day, after all. Visenya laid Rhaenys head on her chest, stroked her hair absentmindedly and began singing. _Just like when I was little,_ the queen thought with a sated smile. It was a valyrian song, sung so sweetly that it would have made her weep, if she had any tears left to cry. _Senya has such a lovely voice, she should sing more._

“I love you,” Rhaenys whispered as the arms of sleep overtook her. Visenya stopped singing and ceased her movements. Instead, the warrior queen held her sister tighter, and replied.

“I love you as well.” Her voice sounded so raw, so real. Rhaenys would have replied, but her sister’s voice had been somewhere in the distance, _and I am in the land of sleep._

She woke to hushed conversation. She was still in Visenya’s arms and could feel slender, slightly calloused hands stroke her hair. _Aegon has larger hands,_ she thought. There was someone else in the room, but Rhaenys was still half-asleep and could not quite make the voices out. _Senya will deal with it, I am tired._

“She has had a long, tiresome day. There are things on her mind, that weighs her down, as well.”

“She is not hurt, is she?”

“No, not externally.”

“Speak plainly, Visenya,” a man sighed wearily. It must be Aegon.

With bleary, violet eyes, she took in her surroundings. _It must be the hour of the wolf, by now._ There was a man on the bed, with short, silver-gold hair and a hand, resting upon Visenya’s thigh. He smiled when he saw that Rhaenys had woken.

“Rhaenys,” he said with a tenderness, he saved for her. Seeing him made her heart clench, for she felt so unworthy of a man such as that.

She sat up and allowed him to wrap his arms around her slim body, stroking her back soothingly whilst doing so.

“How are you doing, my love?” he let go of her and she felt cold without him. Aegon’s indigo eyes bore uncertainty and a hint of worry.

“I am well,” she said and looked to Visenya, pleading with her eyes, for her sister to not disagree. Visenya pursed her lips, but did not contradict the statement.

“Here,” Aegon said and pushed a plush, gorgeously detailed box of wood, toward her. She opened it and there laid a necklace wrought in ornate gold, decorated with amethysts. It was breathtaking and she donned it at once. _These Lyseni sure know how to craft a necklace._

“It is beautiful, thank you,” she breathed and Aegon smiled a shy, sweet smile.

“I am glad you like it,” he said.

“I love it.” Then she kissed him fervently, and he pushed her down on the bed.

“It is time for us all to sleep, do you not think, Visenya?” he asked and their sister nodded. It was not often that he slept with all three. Actually, Rhaenys could not recall the last time they had all slept together, except from last night.Yet that had included more than sleeping.

“Yes, I am tired and you all kept me awake for much longer than I intended to be.” Guilt filled Rhaenys, for she had kept Visenya from continuing on her evening, with her childish antics and bouts of tears.

“I’m sorry, Senya.” Tears began to flood in the queen’s violet eyes, but Visenya prevented them from falling. Gently, her sister laid Rhaenys down on the bed again, along with herself. Their noses were almost touching, and Aegon moved to lay down and embrace Rhaenys from her back. He laid his head in the crook of her neck, and breathed in sharply. Soon enough, he was sound asleep, but Rhaenys and Visenya remained awake-- staring into each other’s eyes that were the telltale signs of a lost freehold.

Visenya kissed Rhaenys tenderly.

“Do not be sorry. We are bound together, it is my duty. I do not mind caring for you, I never have.” It made Rhaenys smile and close her eyes in bliss. They all fell asleep, entwined with each other, as if they were one. _We are one. Three parts that make us whole. I rue the day when we become incomplete._

Visenya was right. Rhaenys was not barren, and would come to bear her husband an heir, a son. They named him Aenys, and though he was weak, frail and small; he lived and became Rhaenys’s treasure. Unfortunately, she did not live long enough to see him rule, or grow into a man. For the gentle queen perished at Hellholt in Dorne, shot down from the skies, as she was atop Meraxes. The two years that followed were known as The Dragon’s Wroth, for King Aegon and Queen Visenya set every keep, inn, holdfast and city ablaze, at least once. The only exception was Sunspear and its shadow city. They were terrible in the height of their fury and grief.

Truly there are many who live, that deserve to die.

Then there are those who die, but deserve to live.

Rhaenys belonged to the latter of those.

 


	25. The way we carry our scars, is how we make them our own.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenny sees the melancholy, silver-haired prince that has Duncan in his eyes, wander the ruins of Summerhal. They form a sort of kindred friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supposing that Jenny lived throughout the years after the tragedy at Summerhal, she must've come across Rhaegar at least once. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter and the next one will most likely be on either Aemon/Jocelyn or Daeron/Mariah. I don't know when i'll write and post it, though. I've been feeling pretty drained lately. 
> 
> Don't forget to leave a kudos and a comment if you enjoyed it. I love hearing your thoughts, and thanks for the continuous support. <3 
> 
> Disclaimer: This hasn't been edited, but i'll get to it sometime. Also i'm having Rhaegar call Duncan his ''uncle'' even though it's his great-uncle because... simplicity?

 

 

 

The first time she saw him, he was a young boy and not quite a man. The scent of melancholy clung to him. It was in his eyes, his heart and soul. The boy was of her husband’s kin, she knew. _Dead husband,_ she corrected herself. _You are a widow now. You have been for so very long._ His hair was silver, entwined with gold, his eyes a wistful blue on purple. Jenny dared not go near him, so she hid in the shadows, behind the rustling of leaves and the chiming of the night-wind.

“Who are you?” the boy called as he heard her soft feet pad along the blackened ruins. _I was Jenny with Duncan, but now I am not quite so sure…_ She never replied, the boy never forced her to. He only played, moving his fingers along the strings of a silvery harp, that sparkled in the moonlight. The notes were sorrowful, haunting and dreary with doom. They sounded learned in pain, and Jenny found herself wondering where he had got such gloom from. _Why he knows of such hurt._

“I am Rhaegar,” he called out, before he departed, in the early hours of the morn. Jenny had not slept.

The second time she saw him, was a year later. She had always stayed close to the wretched castle that took her husband and wandered amongst the ruins of a once, beautiful castle, but she could not do it as often anymore. _Not after I heard that melancholy kin of Duncan’s, play those sorrowful tunes on elegant fingers._ Something made her return, however, be it sentiment, pain, curiosity or perhaps a mix of all three. _The Targaryens always did love their threes,_ she smiled ruefully.

Rhaegar had grown, still not a man, but no longer a young boy. He looked to be two-and-ten, give or take a year or two. The silver-stringed harp lay silent in his lap, as he gazed at the night-sky with eyes too big for his face. The light of the moon reflected on his silver-gold curls, making them sparkle and shine as if they were not of this world. Jenny looked down at herself, noting the frayed hems and torn pieces of her only dress. She’d not worn any other garment since that fire, all those years ago. _Duncan gifted this to me, and said it drew the youthful beauty out of my face, to new extremes._

To clean herself, she bathed in the river during the black of night, when nothing was present but the comforting sounds of an owl hooting in its nest, or a scurrying rabbit. Jenny was dearly fond of animals, and they seemed to understand her, when the world of men was at a loss. _I never needed any of them to comprehend the workings of my brain. Only Duncan._

“I haven’t seen you for long,” the boy called out suddenly, startling Jenny so fiercely that she almost fell over on a piece of jagged rock. She put a hand on her heart, to steady her breath. He had still not turned around, it was as if he could sense her presence in some queer way, without seeing her first. Finally, he did turn around and she was astounded by how much he looked like Shaera’s babes, Aerys and Rhaella. He even has a little bit of Duncan in him. _It’s in the jaw and the kind glint in his melancholy eyes._ Last time Jenny had seen Aerys and Rhaella, were before her Duncan perished. She never saw another Targaryen after that, not that she’d sought them out, or they, her. _Not until this one._

“Who are you?” he asked as he rested his chin on his knees, and almost looked to be pouting.

“Jenny. I was Jenny,” she said, almost as if in a daze. Her name felt foreign atop tongue, bitter and strange. She’d not tasted them in so long, and they usually came from the lips of another.

“You were my great-uncle’s wife, were you not? Mother told me about you.” _Little Rhaella told him of Jenny? The peasant girl from Oldstones, with a proud heart and magic blood?_

“Duncan was his name,” she told the him, with a strange tilt to her voice. The boy known as Rhaegar smiled but it looked broken.

“My father told me he was good and kind.” Jenny snorted.

“And was to be king, but wed a peasant from Oldstones and brought on war,” she said wryly.

“Something like that,” the boy smiled shyly.

“Honeyed words and humbleness was never Prince Aerys’s forté.” Smiling felt unfamiliar, when all she’d known was tears for so long.

Rhaegar gazed at her strangely, for many moments whilst pondering what he would tell her.

“My father is king now. He has been, for nigh upon eleven years.” _That means…_ Jenny was horrified, how could she not have known? _They were gentle people, kind to me and never treated me as if I was a piece of dirt on their collar._

“Queen Shaera? King Jaehaerys?” she asked, her voice breaking at the ends. The boy’s eyes filled with watery tears and he simply shook his head.

“Grandfather died shortly into his reign. Grandmother would follow a year later, perishing of a wicked fever.” Something moved Jenny, and forced her to pad up to the prince, putting her hand on his, as a sign of empathy. _I’ve lost as well. I’ve supped on tears and dined on heartache. It does not feel pleasant, oh no, it does not._

“They were both good people,” Jenny told him, a frown caressing her face.

“Yes, they were.” He sounded so solemn. _As he should, Jenny thought. The Targaryens have been perishing like flies. Not even the dragonflies were safe from the arms of the Stranger._

The boy was beautiful, she had to admit. With the eyes of Rhaella and Jaehaerys’s paler hair. Yet Rhaegar had grown, taller than she remembered his father having been at that age and even more handsome. _But you are so sad. Dry your eyes and cleanse your soul, sweet boy._ Her thoughts felt hypocritical, as she should have taken her own advice, years ago.

Smoothing her honey-colored hair behind her ears, she decided to rise and take a seat next to the prince, on the broken bench underneath the dark sky, illuminated by the stars.

“What brings you here, to this place of tragedy?” she asked and Rhaegar turned to her with those wistful eyes that spoke of a burden too heavy, to be named.

“It is home,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, but those indigo eyes bore another truth.

“Not any longer,” she told him with a shake of her head. _Not any longer… this is ruin for your house, now._

“I always felt at peace here. Summerhal understands me, where the Red Keep fails.”

“You feel more at home in a castle full of unquiet ghosts?”

“They are silent since long,” he smiled but it looked empty. “Besides, they were never of malicious intent. There was never hatred in the air, just doom.”

“Doom and prophecies,” she began. “Sometimes I wonder if they are not the same thing.” Her voice sounded strangely bitter.

“If this place is so full of haunting ghosts, then why do you stay here?” his question was genuine, there was no scorn or cruel jape at her cost, lacing his words.

“Because they are my ghosts. I will never abandon them.”

“Even if it kills you?”

“I should be lucky if it kills me. Then I can dance through the halls with them by my side, forever.” The prince did not reply, but he squeezed her hand, to let her know that for that one wretched moment, she was not alone.

Absentmindedly, Jenny cradled her flat belly, as if it was great with child when she looked out into the quiet night.

“You were going to have a child?” Rhaegar asked so hopelessly, but he already knew the answer.

“We were, but it seems this castle was not content with taking my husband. It needed my child, as well.”

“They made songs of your love, you know. Of the Prince Of Dragonflies and his Lady Of Oldstones.” Jenny sighed. _I know, my child. I know. The truth is not like the songs, however. Westeros paid my bride-price in corpses, many were fond of saying._

“I am aware.”

“What was it like, truly?” _That is the question many would like to know,_ Jenny smiled.

“It was not quite as the world believes it was, yet it was not unlike it either.”

“We were young and foolish. Love, the singers called it. It was infatuation that grew into love, i’d say and Duncan would have, as well. I didn’t know he was a prince, at first. He had me fooled for weeks, until he finally revealed the truth.” A laugh of sweet reminisce escaped her lips and filled the night with a magical wonder.

“He told me he was Dunk, the son of a blacksmith. He did not have the hands of a blacksmith, but I never told him that.” Rhaegar chuckled and toyed with the strings of his harp, as Jenny continued her story.

“He was dutiful, loved his family and told me he had a betrothed. Some Lady from the Stormlands, Jocelyn, I think was her name. I cried for days, after that piece of information was relayed. He did not return for a whole week, and I thought I should surely perish without him and his arms around me and those strange, blue eyes that were really purple.”

“What happened after that?” Rhaegar breathed, utterly entranced by her tale. Jenny gave him a pointed smile and continued.

“He told me that he did not care. That he’d wed me and damn the consequences, damn all those who would dare try to tear us asunder. So, we wed. That was the beginning of the events that would end up in catastrophe. Soon after, your grandparents would also wed without leave from their father, the king. Then Daeron would break his betrothal as well.” Jenny shook her head as she thought of the youngest of Aegon V’s children. _She was the youngest, but more dutiful than all those who were older and who should have known better._

“Rhaelle paid the price for our foolery. She had to suffer for our little mummer’s show, where we were children, playing at being grown.” _Why is it most often the innocent, who pay for the crimes of those who are guilty?_

“What happened after you wed?” Indigo eyes burned into the side of Jenny’s head, and she shook her head sadly.

“I was allowed at court, after some time, when matters had settled a little and was called a lady out of courtesy. I was not one, nor would I ever be. Duncan had to denounce his claim as heir to the throne. The king seemed to understand his son marrying for love, yet he knew the cost of slights and did what he must. It is hard work to seal weeping wounds, and the price is often high, as well.”

“What was uncle like, after?”

“Duncan said it had been a fair amount to pay, for our love.” Jenny swallowed deeply before continuing. “I am not quite so sure,” she finished sadly.

“We loved each other, that much is true. But no love comes without troubles of its own, and ours bore many, yet we persevered. Duncan and I were going to have a babe of our own,” she said as tears trickled down her face.

“Instead I had naught but ashes,” she concluded.

“My father never loved mother,” Rhaegar suddenly said.

“They were forced to wed, because of a prophecy, because of me.” Rhaegar’s eyes grew big and his posture heavy, with a glorious burden.

“I know, I was there. My friend was the one who relayed it.”

“Was she?”he asked in wonder and it made her laugh a little at his earnest.

“Yes, and in my younger years, I thought she was a child of the forest. She always cared for me though, and lingers here, still.”

“I am the prince that was promised,” he said, solemn with purpose.

“She said that the one who was, would be born of your parents’ line. Prophecies are fickle things, however and treacherous by nature,” Jenny warned.

“They bring nothing but grief and loss. Look at this castle, it is the proof of it. They are madness.” Rhaegar did not seem to hear her, or mull over her words. His eyes were dazed with a glow she’d seen cover his grandfather’s eyes, and his great grandfather’s eyes, as well. _Nothing good comes from that look._

“How old are you?” The prince wondered, as Jenny looked young, but felt old beyond her years. _For true? I’ve lost count._

“I cannot remember,” she replied, as she furrowed her eyebrows. “I was one-and-thirty when he died. I never bothered to count, after that.”

“Why do you stay here?”Jenny smiled at the little creases that formed on the prince’s forehead, when he frowned.

“I already told you.” “They are my ghosts.”

“That will not make them any less sad,” he replied.

“Neither will it make you any less melancholy to visit this place of grief.” Rhaegar frowned at her words and changed the subject.

“You could return to court. Father would allow it, if I asked, I am sure. Mother would most like be delighted. She needs a new lady-in-waiting after father and Lady Lannister…” Jenny put a warm hand on Rhaegar’s.

“No, I won’t return to any court, nor be anyone’s lady-in-waiting. This is my place, and here I shall dwell and remain until the end of my days. I promised Duncan I'd never leave him, I've kept my promise for this long. There is no point in breaking it now.”

“Besides,” she smiled ruefully. “I was never a lady.”

“Alright.” Then they sat next to each other, in a comforting silence that seemed to last eons. Finally, Jenny spoke, choked with grief.

“Sing me a song,”

Rhaegar sung her one so sad, it made her weep.

***

The last time she saw him, he was finally a man, and she had lived too long of a life. The dragon prince was arguably the most handsome man in the entire realm, now. His hair was long and glistening. His face put even the sun to shame, it would blind you to look upon it, for too long. Yet he remained as kind and humble, as all those years before.

“Aunt Jenny,” he smiled in greeting and proceeded to brush a long braid behind his ear. The young prince embraced her, as one would a mother or an aunt. His arms calmed her old heart and brought her a serene feeling of calm.

“Rhaegar,” she croaked. “How many years have you seen now?” The prince laughed and sat down on their designated bench of broken stone and sorrow.

“Twenty. We first met, eight years past.” Jenny nodded and touched the hilt of his silver harp.

“I am to be wed, in a few moons.” Jenny wondered to whom, perhaps a sister, but Rhaegar never told her of any children besides Prince Viserys, that had lived.

“To what lady?” she asked and the prince shook his head.

“She is a princess, as I am a prince. Of a different kingdom, however. Her name is Elia Martell. They say she is gentle and kind.” _You sound so weary and hopeless as you say the words_ , Jenny thought in alarm.

“What is wrong with her, then? What has you worried, my boy?” the sky was no longer a burning crimson, but instead a pale blue and soft lilac. The sun had set, but its glow still remained.

“She was born prematurely, none expected her to live. That has plagued her life and she is said to be fragile, delicate of health. I worry she may not be able to birth me the heirs I need.” _Is all you damned princes and kings think of, heirs? To your throne of blood and lies?_

“Surely she will be able to birth at least one, or your father would not have you be betrothed to her.” Jenny’s voice was stern, almost chiding. _Women are not broodmares, for you to mount and be rid of, when it pleases you._

“My father… he does not like the Dornish, but she was all we had to choose from. The pond of fishes with Valyrian blood has decreased vastly, since the kings of old.” The lady of Oldstones nodded.

“But I need three heirs. The dragon must always have three heads,” he said with feverish eyes. _No, Rhaegar. We spoke of this, of the danger of prophecies. Why will you not listen?_

“You are chasing these shadows, these whispers and they will not stop until they have your heart, as well as your mind. Prophecies will never end up the way you wish, and your want for more will never cease, in these constant searches.” Rhaegar nodded, but he was not truly there. _Hear my words, understand them. I lost to prophecies, you are too young and promising, to be spoiled by them, as well._

Rhaegar took hold of her hands gently, and kissed her cheek.

“Do not worry, aunt Jenny. I know what I am speaking of, and even Maester Aemon agrees. My children will help save the world from an eternal night. However, there must be three.” _You Targaryen and your damned threes._

“How far will you go, to what lengths will you seek-- for this prophecy of salt and smoke? When will you stop? Or will it turn to Summerhal, as you are walking on the thin line between life and fantasy? Soon enough, Westeros will be full of ghosts, some kind and some mad. Is it worth the risk?”

“It has to be. Otherwise the world will be swallowed by darkness, this is our burden and we must carry it.” his wistful, baritone notes flowed into the night, and for a short second, magic was in the air, once again.

“Tell me you’ll be careful, that you will think before you act,” she pleaded with worried eyes.

“Of course, you have my word.” _I had Duncan’s word as well-- that we would be alright, but that meant nothing in the end, did it?_ Jenny leaned her head against Rhaegar’s shoulder and sighed. _This will never end._

“I hear you’ve grown close with my little friend, as well,” she smiled, thinking of her false child of the forest.

“She is very learned in the magical art of visions and prophecies.”

“Aye, she is,” Jenny replied and could taste the bitterness of her words. Things remained quiet for a while after that, the air closing in on them both.

“She speaks highly of you, you know?” Jenny looked up and met his eyes.

“Of you as well, my prince.” Silence enveloped them both, until it became too much to bear.

“How are you, truly?” he asked and sounded so worried. Strands of silver had begun entwining with her honey curls, and age had begun to take its toll on her back and hips. _All I wished, was for Duncan to have been here with me, to share our old age and watch our children grow. Alas, it was never to be._

“The Stranger will come for me soon. The scent of death lingers all around me, it is only fair that I shall pay my due, as well. I fear I will not be here long enough to watch the world burn, once again.” 

“Don’t say such things, aunt Jenny,” Rhaegar begged her, with that ever-present melancholy swirling in his eyes of indigo.

“Fret not, my child. Duncan will be here, when the Stranger come for the last one. He will keep me safe, I promise.” she was calm regarding her death. _I have lived far too long, anyway._

“I am sorry for all the pain you lived through,” the silver-prince told her and she smiled sadly, moving to stroke his shoulders, gently.

“We all have our scars to hold, the way we carry them, is how we make them our own.” Rhaegar nodded, gently biting his nails as he took in the depth of her words.

“The sun is rising,” he said as he saw the light begin to emerge from the horizon.

“And so are we.”

“Now sing me my song,” she whispered softly. “It calms me.” The young prince picked up his silvery harp and brushed off some dirt from it, running his long fingers along the strings, to hear their tunes. Then he played and began to sing. The soft, baritone notes flowed into the air of dawn, like the sweetest resolve.

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts._

_The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most._

_The ones who’d been gone, for so very long, she couldn’t remember their names._

_They spun her around on the damp Old Stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain._

_And she never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave._

How could any of them know of the ruin that would follow? Jenny had her inklings, but none as awful and wretched as those that came to be. Prophecies are dangerous things and she tried her best to warn Rhaegar, to warn King Aegon V, to warn Duncan. Sometimes our best is not enough, and many must pay the consequences for the actions of few. Most often it is the youngest, who suffer the most. Ask Princess Rhaelle, ask Prince Viserys and his sister. Ask Princess Rhaenys, her brother and her kitten. Ask Elia Martell. Ask them all. Ask their ghosts, to see what tale of sorrow they sing.

I fear the answers will not be to your taste, at all. The truth most often, never is.


	26. The wars of our fathers, are not ours to bear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince weds a princess and binds up the weeping wounds that their feuding realms had tore open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have a look at Mariah Martell marrying Prince Daeron II Targaryen. 
> 
> Should I even apologize for the paragraphs toward the end at this point lmao?
> 
> Anway; I'm kind of stuck on the Jocelyn/Aemon chapter, so idk when it will be posted, or the next update; so i'll see you in the forseeable future, I suppose. 
> 
> Please leave a Kudos if you enjoyed the story, and I love reading your comments and hearing what you thought, so please don't be shy.
> 
> Until next time<3

 

 

 

“Through you and the Targaryen prince, we will have peace at last, my daughter,” Mariah’s father told her, as he stroked her cheek gently. “And throughout it all, what did we remain?” her father asked with wise, golden eyes. 

“Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,” Mariah responded. She was a girl of one-and-ten, but she knew their words very well. A wistful smile touched her father’s face and transformed his features. 

“Indeed. It was not Dorne who came brokering for peace. We are resilient, we would have stood long after they turned to ashes. It was the Targaryen king, who came into our land and begged for it, offering his cousin-son to seal the union.” Mariah nodded, remembering the gaunt king, with his silver-gold hair, purple eyes and fervent prayers. 

“King Baelor was strange,” she whispered and her father laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling up in mirth. 

“He was fanatically pious, my girl. I often find those strange, as well. Yet he was good and kind, was he not? It is a shame that he almost died, but such men should never be king. You need to be able to separate gods from ruling, otherwise you will leave the world a greater mess than when you entered it. These deities will offer you no help.” It often amazed the princess, how her father could be so wise. _It is as if he only matures with age._ The Prince of Dorne was no longer the young man that he had once been. The greying of his hair and lining of his skin, bore testament to that. His wits never dulled though, and  Mariah felt proud, to have been given such a father. 

“When will I wed the Prince Daeron?” she asked.

“Eager, are we?” The Prince of Dorne asked with a gentle smile, as he ruffled her long, dark hair.

“You will wed him when you both come of age. You are not a woman yet, my sweet, so enjoy the years that you have left to be free.” “It is a heavy burden to be a wife and bear children. You will give birth to princes and princesses of the blood--giving Dorne dragons of their own, but it will not be easy. Live your life, before it all flashes before your eyes, daughter,” he continued and a melancholy hung over the room, yet neither wanted to acknowledge it. Mariah barely understood what her father was saying, but she nodded nonetheless. _I assume I shall come to realise it, as the years pass._

The years were kind to the Princess of Dorne. She grew from an ungainly, clumsy and gawky girl with knobbly knees and a pudgy body into something else entirely. Oh, how she had prayed to the gods, for them to make her beautiful. So that she could bear her Targaryen husband children that were worthy of his lineage. The gods replied in their very own manner, as they oft do. Her body grew to be lean and soft, with wide hips and a fairly sizeable bosom. Though not tall by any means, she was not short either, and stood at an average height for a woman of her age. The long, black hair continued to grow down her back, in waves as sinful as night. It would often glisten a dark copper shade, in the sun.

Blessed with rather delicate features, her nose was straight and her lips were plump. Not quite as plump as one would have expected them to be, but they suited her heart-shaped face. Mariah’s eyes remained what they had always been; dark brown-- gentle and knowing. Sometimes the princess wished that she would have inherited the golden ones of her father, but instead she received those of her mother. As the years passed, she grew content with them, and found beauty in their rich color. The skin covering her body, was a tanned beige, which she had her Rhoynar lineage and the burning sun to give thanks to. 

Of course, Mariah, like so many other young women of her time, did not look at herself and see beauty. She saw all her flaws. The way that blemish of her youth, had left a dark spot on the side of her jaw. It had mostly faded, but it was still there, and she saw it. _I just want to be beautiful enough for him._ Mariah had never seen her betrothed, but the Targaryen beauty was wide and famed. They were the last of an ancient empire, of the blood of dragons and gods. Once, they had even ridden those formidable beasts. _No longer, but their comeliness lives on._ The one thing that Mariah could look at, and not be disquieted by, was her smile. She cursed her thighs and her ever-slouching stature, even though she consciously tried to stand up straight, as oft as she could, but her smile was something, not even her own inner devils could scorn. It was gentle, soft and transformed her face. No one could ever look at that smile, and not help but think of how beautiful a girl, that princess of Dorne was. 

***

 Her father had prepared her for the west, long and hard. 

_“They will not be gentle to you, my girl. They may scream and curse you to the gods, or they will hide behind scornful smiles and false flattery. Let them be angry, that their prince wed a Dornishwoman, let them wail and howl-- but do not ever bow to them or let it bend and break you. We are strong, if we will ourselves to be.” Mariah wept, for she wished to be accepted by the West._

_“It will be alright. That screeching storm will pass, and you will be their Dornish queen. The sun will never abandon one of its children.” She asked her father how she would become queen, if the children of the first son were plentiful and alive. All she received was a knowing smile and a dismissive kiss to her forehead._

Her father was correct. The Westerosi court did not greet her warmly. The king had been an exception, kissing her on her cheeks and blessing her. Her good-mother-to-be was also kind and gracious, often sewing with Mariah or playing the harp for her. Prince Aemon, her good-uncle to be, had taken her breath away, when she first laid eyes upon him. With clear, amethyst eyes and a face that many a maidens would gladly have died for-- he was also fiercely kind and protective of her, even though he was in the Kingsguard and absent, more oft than not. 

The Dornish Princess would not say that Prince Daeron was a disappointment, for he was a kind, well-mannered man, also greatly educated and a great conversationalist. Her prince was fond of reading and a very scholarly man. The first time they met, he had engaged her in a conversation regarding Dornish customs, proving that he was very cultured in the matter. It did appear a little strange, however, that he looked so different from his father. Prince Daeron’s eyes were the clear amethyst Prince Aemon, yet Mariah never said that out loud. 

Though tall, the prince harbored a small pot-belly, and his shoulders were round. He looked soft, instead of hard, but no one could boast that he was not handsome. The prince’s face bore delicate features, ones that had to be seen and understood, to be appreciated. With the famed silver-gold hair that fell slightly beneath his neck, he looked ethereal, somehow. Just like Princess Naerys and her big, violet eyes. _He does not need to be a warrior; tall, fearsomely strong and lean, to be considered handsome._

Mariah’s welcome from her husband-to-be’s father had been less than warm. Prince Aegon had been making barely-veiled snide remarks, regarding the princess during all of that feast. He did not like the Dornish wine, nor the jewels she bore. Prince Aegon also said the heat was what made Dornishwomen so wanton, from his experience, and that no one, woman or man over the age of four-and-ten had their virtue intact. _He is wrong,_ she found herself thinking coldly. _I am proof of that._ Daeron’s grandfather had not been much to Mariah’s taste either, she found him stern and cold. He remained courteous, but there was nothing behind his eyes. 

That feast had been held seven days before their wedding and Mariah would not have worded it a success. She saw the Princess Naerys’s discomfort and Daeron’s brewing contempt for his father. _Neither of them care for each other,_ she had noted. _Their relationship seems clinical, at best._ Quietly, Daeron would lean over to her and apologise, each time his father made a snide remark. _His heart is kind._ The prince’s hand had also found hers, underneath the table, and squeezed it gently. It gave Mariah the strength to not weep, to not run far and wide, to the Free Cities, to live as a pirate. Away from her titles, duties and obligations. Away from this viper’s nest that they called King’s Landing. 

Neither Daeron and Mariah had spent more than a fortnight in each other's company, when they had been wed in the Great Sept of Baelor. Her dress had been made of the finest samite, adorned with beautiful embroidery that showed suns and dragons, covered with onyx, jade, amber and ruby gems. The dark river that was Mariah’s hair, was made into an intricate, braided southron hairstyle that made her neck hurt. She did not like it, and asked the Princess Naerys, if her hair could have been free and flowing, instead. The princess looked at her kindly, but sadness swirled in those big, violet eyes of hers. 

_“Oh, no, my sweet. You must look southron, or I fear you will face japes and scorn. Be brave, it is only for a night. It shan’t break you,” the princess Naerys said and stroked Mariah’s cheek._

Now here she was, standing in front of Prince Daeron, the second of his name. _His namesake was shot down, in the land of my people. This seems a cruel, divine sort of justice, that we should wed._ Mariah did what was expected of her. She swore to love her husband and be a dutiful wife. He swore the same, and they were entwined with the silky, alabaster rope that signified that they were now one. Then Daeron removed her Martell cloak and replaced it with the Targaryen one of red and black. It made the princess feel strangely empty. 

She would miss her family. _I will not see them often, maybe once every second year, if I am lucky._ It is hard, for a girl of five-and-ten, to leave her family behind. _Maron is only a child of four, I will miss him dearly._ The thought of her memory, receding and becoming foreign to her brother, made her melancholy-- yet she was determined to shine as bright as the sun during the feast. _Father told me to not let them see any weakness, or they will pounce. I will not fail you, father._

Daeron took hold of her face, suddenly-- waking her from the world of her mind. His eyes bore kindness and resolve. _All will be alright,_ they conveyed. Mariah smiled and leaned forward. Their lips met and it was brief, but sweet. A fondness for her prince began brewing in her chest and Mariah hoped with all her being, that she would grow to love him. _He deserves to be loved, and I will do my best to make it so._ Then it was time for them to ride in the open carriage, through King’s Landing, to the Red Keep, where the feast would await them.  

The crowds were happy, and cheered for their prince’s marriage. _They’re smallfolk. They cheer for rain, sun and long summers. They are not hard to please._ However, some of them spit on the ground when they saw Mariah, or called out that she was a Dornish whore. The princess pretended that she did not hear or see it. _They neither know nor love you, Mariah. You do not need their approval, your wedding is already a done and sealed affair._

“Are you alright, My Princess?” Daeron asked her, almost shouting, for the crowd was louder than a dragon’s roar. _Not that I ever heard one._

“Yes, My Prince.” she smiled and it was half of the truth. _I do not want to worry him. I will be alright, mayhaps not today or tomorrow; but I will be._ Daeron’s amethyst eyes seemed to sparkle like a purple river, in the sun and she found the sight absolutely enchanting. His hair glimmered like spun gold and molten silver, as well. _To be as beautiful as a Targaryen,_ she found herself thinking, wistfully. 

It felt as if they had only just begun their journey, when they arrived at the Red Keep, and were seated at the high-table for the feast. Lord and Ladies were paying their courtesy upon the Prince Of Dragonstone and the Princess of Dorne. Most of them were kind, Lord Tully had gifted them a set of ornate silver vases, whilst Lady Lannister gave them a golden sun, with an ornate dragon carved into it-- to be hung on the walls. The Lord and Lady of Tyrell were dismissive in their courtesy, and barely spoke to Mariah, the same went for Lord Baratheon. Their scorn did sting the princess, but it did not make her bleed. _I will not let them,_ she vowed. Daeron remained a dutiful prince, spoke with and displayed his thanks to the lords and ladies of the realm-- even though he seemed weary of it, each time Mariah looked upon him. 

“Will my good-daughter do me the honor of dancing with me?” Prince Aegon leered at Mariah and her skin crawled under the heat of it. He was fat and stunk of wine. She pleaded to the gods for any distraction, but none was given. Princess Naerys, Prince Aemon and Daeron looked anxious as they awaited her reply. 

“Of course,” Mariah said as she donned a false smile. She turned to Daeron and he looked as if he wanted to throttle his father, right then and there. Nonetheless, her husband nodded toward her, and she grudgingly took hold of Prince Aegon’s arm. 

The music was loud, and the singers sang their beautiful songs, as Prince Aegon clumsily twirled her around on the floor, trying to remain gracious. 

“So you Dornishwomen are capable of more than riding and laying on your back,” Prince Aegon laughed, perhaps he thought it a compliment. Even as a girl of fifteen, she knew that he was not speaking of riding horses. It made the very blood in Mariah’s veins turn to ice. _Remember father’s words. Do not break for these people._

“And you Targaryens can dance as well as you ride dragons,” she smiled and the barely-veiled insult, wiped the smirk right off of his fat face. _My work is done,_ she thought, as she saw rage swirl in his cold, purple eyes. 

“Know your place, slut,” he spit out at her and Mariah realised that this was a dangerous game that she was playing. _He is a prince of the blood,_ she reminded herself. _This is not Dorne, guard your tongue or he will surely have it ripped out._ His grip tightened on her waist and shoulder. The Dornish princess looked down, and made no reply. They swirled for a few more moments, until he leaned close to her ear. 

“I do suppose that you are not without your advantages.” Then his hand travelled down her gown, to the small of her back, where he squeezed the swell of her backside. The action made tears brim in her eyes. 

“If you ever tire of my dull, bookish...son and wish for a man, you will know where to go. You Dornish can’t be quenched,” he laughed and his chins bobbled with it. Mariah brown eyes saw the butcher’s knife on one of the tables, and the thought to grab one and stab her good-father until his heart was no longer beating, and her hands were covered in crimson liquid, was appealing. Yet she shooed the thought away.  

“Thank you for this dance,” she replied stonily, bowed and took her leave-- returning to the high-tables where her husband was looking at her anxiously. 

“What happened?” he frowned as he saw her eyes were brimming with tears. 

“Nothing that I did not expect,” she replied, watering down the truth. _I did not expect him to grope me, no. I foolishly thought my royal title would prevent that, but he has one of his very own._ Daeron bit his lip and looked at her warily. 

“I am sorry,” he said, after a few silent moments of brown meeting amethyst. 

“You have not done anything, My Prince. No fault lies with you,” she said as she turned her gaze, to blankly look forward. 

“Yes I did. I could have refused that you dance with him.”

“It would have made a scene,” she scoffed. “It would be all people would have spoken of, for moons. It would have been how our wedding feast would have been remembered. You did well to not oppose him,” she continued. Her prince nodded, but it did not seem like he believed her words. 

“Believe me, Daeron.” To comfort him, she put a tanned hand, atop his pale one-- as a gentle gesture. He smiled but it looked empty. 

“You are not him,” she said, realising how he must think that he was doomed to be just like his father, as they were of the same blood. 

“I am of him,” Daeron responded grimly, taking a deep swig from his winecup.

“That does not mean that you are cursed to be like him. We choose our own fates.” She was drawing little circles on his hand, with the tip of her thumb. 

“Are you not a little too young, for such wisdom?” Daeron asked with a smile. 

“You are only one year older than me, are you not a little too young, for such melancholy?” she challenged. 

“Yes. I suppose,” he answered. 

They danced and ate, for some time after that, then another prince came, to ask for her hand in a dance.

“I would love to,” she smiled and clear amethyst eyes met hers. 

“I hope I have your leave, to steal away your wife for a song or two, nephew?” Daeron smiled at the question. 

“Of course, uncle.” So it was, that Prince Aemon took hold of Mariah’s hand, with such tenderness, that she wondered if he had even grasped it, at all. 

“You look beautiful, princess,” Prince Aemon said, smiling so beautifully that it would have put the sun to shame. 

“You look handsome as well, My Prince,” she replied, earnestly. _Anyone would be lying if they said that they did not crave him._

“I hope my brother was not too obscene with you. He has always been… difficult,” Prince Aemon said with a purse of his lips. 

“Nothing that will leave too harsh effects,” she replied curtly. _He must know what a monster Prince Aegon is, I need not tell him._

Understanding swirled in those amethyst eyes of his, and he embraced the Dornish princess. _How can you be so warm and kind to me, when my people held and tortured you viciously?_

“We understand. Naerys, Daeron and I understand. Our father may not, and King Baelor may refuse to see it, yet we will never scorn you. We will always be there, if you so need. My mother experienced how vile and cruel this court can be to foreigners. We will do our best, for you to find sanctuary with us.” The way he spoke, it was as if they were family, as if Daeron was his, and Naerys as well. Perhaps they were. _I will not pry, it is not my place._

 Prince Aemon’s hair smelled of lavender flowers and something she could not quite put her finger on.

She danced with Daeron after that, and he was ever the gentle prince. It was as if it was against his nature, to do anything that would even remotely shame her. Princess Mariah felt lucky in her match, as it could have been much worse. _If Prince Aegon had not already been wed to princess Naerys, I may have been forced to be his wife. I am grateful that I was not._ Then she was asked to dance by Lord Tully and Lord Dayne-- one of the houses whom the Martells acted as liege lords. Some of them had purple eyes as well, and Mariah was always astounded by it, during feasts. _Now, I will have babes with silver hair and purple eyes of my own, if the gods will it so._

Then, Prince Aegon called for the bedding ceremony, with a vile leer directed toward young Mariah. Without any forewarning, the lords swarmed to her, as bees to honey, and hoisted her up into the air, tearing her beautiful gown apart. _It will soon be over,_ she promised herself, with a blank gaze upward. _They can only harm you, if you let them. Be the sun, be strong. Burn them._ Some of the lords yanked at her braids harshly, and made bawdy comments of how she would be good to break in. It almost made her bend and break. Almost. Hands were all over her body, filthy, vile and invading. She reckoned she saw Prince Aegon somewhere in the crowd of grimy men touching her, but she was not sure. Mariah did not think to turn her head, and find out how her husband was doing. 

Finally, it was over and she was thrown onto a mattress, like a broodmare waiting to be mounted. The obscenity of the ceremony made angry tears start to well in her brown eyes, and a sneer take over her face. 

“Break her in good, Prince Daeron, these Dornishwomen are wild creatures,” one of the lords yelled out at her husband, bawdily. Mariah grabbed the black, silken sheet, to cover her body, as her husband was thrown in. It was so much to take, for a girl who had seen fifteen namedays, far too much suffering, for one eve.

“Out with you,” Daeron falsely laughed, but wiped his smile off as soon as he closed the door. 

“I am sorry,” he whispered as he walked forward, sitting down on the bed. His pale, slender hands began to undo the intricate braids of her hair with deft fingers-- leaving a river of onyx flowing down her back. 

Mariah, for some reason, began weeping silently. A sort of painful wheezing sound escaped her lips, and she dried her tears with her hands, but they kept on flowing. _Stop it,_ she chided herself. _Do not let him think any lower of you._ Daeron allowed her to weep, and when he was done with her hair, he pulled her body to his, in a fierce embrace. _He is warmth and safety._

“You are alright now,” he told her as he kissed her cheek and brow.

“I know you are hurting and think that you deserve it, but you do not. Believe me,” he continued and she backed away, to look at his clear, amethyst eyes with her own teary, brown ones. 

“I’m so weak,” she cursed herself and looked down. 

“No. You are one of the strongest women I have ever met, Mariah.” His voice was gentle, soothing. She remained quiet, simply looking at him, with a quivering bottom lip. He was not a warrior, his soft body was proof of that, but it felt right on her, she would not have wished him to be any different. Daeron’s face was delicate, and bore a striking resemblance to his mother’s ethereal one. His nose was straight, his jaw sharp and his lips were plumper than hers. Prince Daeron lacked princess Naerys’s pale lashes, and instead had brown ones. Somehow, they made his eyes look even bigger. 

The atmosphere in the room changed and grew stiff. She was suddenly aware that only a sheet covered her body from her husband’s eyes, and that he was naked beside her. She barely dared to look at him, and felt a hot blush beginning to bloom on her cheeks. Mariah felt tender, warm fingers brush away the veil her hair had created from her face, and softly turn it toward his. Neither of them knew quite what to say. _There are no words for this. We are children who must be grown._

“I love your hair,” she blurted out suddenly. Why did you say that? She asked herself, horrified by her words. _Stupid Mariah, out of everything you could have said, you chose that._ Daeron simply rose a surprised eyebrow, and then broke out in laughter. 

“Thank you, princess,” he said with sparkling, amethyst eyes. The sun had set long ago, and only the spread out candles, gave them the dim lighting that shone in their chambers. Somehow, the night-sky and dull light, made everything so much more beautiful. 

“I love the way you speak,” Daeron said shyly, a red blush, flushing his pale cheeks and neck. Somehow, it reminded her of how young they were. _They deem us grown, but are we, truly?_  

“What do you mean?” she asked kindly. 

“You have a tilt to your words. It sounds pleasing, like a song.” 

“That is one of the kindest things i’ve been told, regarding it,” she confessed.

“People should be kinder. It would do them good,” he said and some unknown emotion clouded his eyes-- _resentment?_

“Your voice washes over me, like the calm tide. Do you sing?” she asked

“On the occasion,” he smiled but it looked empty. “Father does not like it when I sing. He thinks it a waste of a man, and a woman’s activity.” 

“I think that you should sing, if you so wish.”

“Let us strike a deal,” her husband said suddenly, his amethyst eyes, glowing. 

“What kind of a deal?” Mariah asked, gently laughing at his sudden surge of excitement. 

“If I promise to sing to you, when you so wish-- you can do the same for me, but with reading?” Mariah raised an eyebrow and bit her lip.

“You want me to read to you?” she asked and Prince Daeron nodded, with a boyish smile. 

“I like hearing you speak,” he said shyly, his brown lashes spilling over his cheeks. 

“And I would like to hear you sing,” she replied. 

“Then it is a done deal.”

“I should think it is,” she smiled, teasingly. 

Suddenly, her lips were on his and her hands in his hair, feeling the silky texture bless her fingers. It reflected gold, and she wondered how anything could be so gorgeous. Something bloomed within her chest and made butterflies form in the pit of her stomach. This new ground was frightening but so exciting. She had never walked this path before. All Mariah had done previously, was kiss some of the boys in her household. _None of it ever felt like this._

“Have you ever done this before?” she breathed, as they broke apart for air. Daeron caressed the side of her belly, and the black sheet had been dropped somewhere in the midst of their actions. 

“Once or twice,” he blushed. She felt a sigh of relief touch her spirits. _He is inexperienced, as am I._

“I assume you have not?” he asked her and she rose an eyebrow.

“Is it that obvious?” she asked  and Daeron stroked her cheek with a tender look in his eyes. 

“No, but no one would have allowed us to wed, if you had.” 

“What if no one knew?” she challenged. Daeron smiled. 

“Then to the world, it never happened.” 

“I have not.” She told him, sincerity lacing each of her words.

“I would not care, if you had. I am not King Baelor, nor any old lordling with a stick up his arse.” 

“Good,” Mariah smiled and felt him push her down on the bed.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her sincerely and she smiled shyly. 

“Thank you,” she said.

“It is the truth,” he replied and she reached out to stroke his cheek.

“You are comely as well.” Her husband scoffed and Mariah raised an eyebrow.

“One does not have to be a warrior, to be comely. You are just right. For me.” her words dared him to challenge her. Instead of replying, he began kissing her and touching her in ways she had never before been.

 Mariah willed herself to close her eyes and focus on his gentle touches, kissing down her body, from her neck, down the swell of her breasts and her stomach.  It felt queerly good, in a forbidden way.

“Relax,” he told her, as she suddenly stiffened when his lips touched the side of her hip, moving down to her thighs. 

“Do you wish me to stop?” her husband asked her, with insecurity flowing in those clear, amethyst eyes of his and a questioning frown as he looked up. 

“No,” Mariah said as she closed her eyes and shook her head. Daeron smiled. 

 There was something so thrilling and rousing with his gleaming eyes, and his head between her thighs. His kisses felt scorching like the Dornish sun, or the hot sands that covered their beaches. Daeron’s hot breaths stirred something inside of her, something she never imagined could exist. Swiftly, she grabbed hold of his hair of silver-gold and tugged, desperate to anchor the fleeting feeling, to the shore. Her breaths grew ever more erratic and all she could think of were his sinful lips and gentle smile with those merry eyes. Mariah whispered his name until she could, no more.

Then she felt as if the stars had crashed upon her and filled her with their coursing power, lighting her from within, yet after the raging storm, came the calmness. Daeron moved to her side, with a surprising grace and kissed her flushed cheeks. 

“Was that pleasant, My Princess?” he asked and it sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know.

“Where did you learn that?” she breathed. _Surely not in any brothels… he does not seem to be the sort, to frequent them._ Her husband smiled shyly.

“I read it in a book,” he said and she laughed.

“What books do you read, My Prince?” she asked scandalously, but severely amused. 

“It was by accident,” he blushed and she nodded. 

“Right,” she allowed with a raised eyebrow. 

“It was written by a famous courtesan in Lys,” he revealed. 

“Those Lyseni sure know their trade,” she giggled. 

“That, they do,” Daeron said as he embraced her and stroked her slightly damp hair. 

His body felt soft next to hers, like a warm pillow she could rest on. Without thought, she turned her head to kiss him, the earlier stiff atmosphere, replaced with a new, more sinister one. She bit his lip gently, and he groaned, grabbing a hold of her hips and letting his hands wander down her body. Then he was on top of her. 

She spread her legs and allowed him to do whatever it is, that men do. He continued kissing her, and she ran her hands through his hair, beckoning him closer. It did not feel wrong for him to be inside her, and she had expected it to hurt, but it was more of a dull throbbing that went away as the seconds ticked into minutes. It was awkward, and fumbling. Neither of them had any large experience in the matter at hand, and Daeron was simply caressing her body as he pushed into her. She closed her eyes and wrapped her legs around his body, desperate for more closeness. 

“Wait,” her husband said suddenly, and moved his fingers downward, they felt cooling on her. 

“I read this in the book,” he smiled, with flushed cheeks and damp silver-gold hair, sticking to his forehead in unruly strands. Then he did something with his hand, as he pushed into her and it felt magically pleasant and she was begging him to continue by the end of it. Then she felt the same feeling as before, and relaxed, but her husband had not found his release yet. Mariah kissed him feverishly until he spilled his seed inside her, warming her from within. 

Daeron collapsed on top of her, and they spent a long time simply rejoicing in each other’s arms. They were young but their coupling had been sweet, sinfully innocent, in a way. All that was heard were their sharp breaths, that died down into calm ones. No words were needed, sometimes a silent comfort is all you crave. _I could grow to love him, we are both young and father always used to say that sometimes; love can be borne out of duty._ Mariah hoped he was right. She wished for it, with all of her bleeding heart. 

She did not know when he did it, for she was most like asleep by then-- lulled by his soothing touches, but he had untangled himself from her, covered them both with the silky, black sheets and embraced her from the side. Somewhere in that midst, she had felt a soft kiss to her brow, and a sweet goodnight being whispered. Mariah did not know if it was a dream or not, but she felt sated; almost hopeful. 

They only stayed in King’s Landing for the remainder of the week. Her husband was Prince Of Dragonstone, after all, and preferred the dreary island of his ancestors, to the pit of vipers, in King’s Landing. Mariah agreed. Yet it was hard, for her family was leaving as well; back to Dorne. Tearful goodbyes were spoken, fierce embraces were embarked upon.

_"Goodbye, Maron,” Mariah whispered, as she embraced the little four-year old boy, whom she called her brother. His golden eyes grew watery, and his bottom lip quivered. Daeron picked the little boy up, for Mariah to give a kiss on the cheek, and then said his own goodbyes._

_“It was lovely meeting you all,” Daeron said with a quiet strength._

_“I hope we meet again,” her father said and she knew that he was testing the waters._

_“Of course,” Daeron promised._

Dragonstone was damp, dark and dreary. The winds blew like howling storms, biting and snapping at your face. The air smelled of salt-water and sulfur, but it had an austere beauty to it. _It also smells fresher than the stench of King’s Landing,_ She thought with contempt. The fort was haughty, with carved dragons, scales and Valyrian sphinxes, everywhere one turned. Her husband was dearly fond of it, _as he should. It is his home, his blood, his lineage. Dragonstone existed before the conqueror’s time. Before they were kings._

Their new home was a simpler life, in a way. Their household was not large, nor were there lords and ladies jostling around everywhere. Mariah rejoiced in the calm that Dragonstone gave her, the sweet resolve. She loved walking around, tracing the scaled walls-- searching for hidden secrets and passages, perhaps, to quench her adventurous spirit. Some sort of kindred feeling grew from those walks. She saw the painted table, and knew that her husband’s family of kings and queens had once stood there, plotting their conquest. _The one that would put crowns on their heads._

The walks in the yards and fields reminded her that dragons had once slept there, laid claim to the lands and lived. _They lived,_ she thought fervently. It was not a tale or a bedtime story; once dragons ruled the skies, and magic had been in the world. The ghosts of Dragonstone were kinder than the ones in King’s Landing, but it had been no less sad to think of how much tragedy had struck this family. _They had it especially hard, when brother turned on sister, and dragons danced their dance of death. Fire and blood._

Daeron thought his wife’s interest was charming and adorable. He was learned in his history, and loved answering her questions. Sometimes they would spend hours in their bedchamber, wrapped up in furs, listening to the trickling of the rain, with Mariah cozed up in Daeron’s arms, skin on skin-- as his gentle voice told her of the dance, the conquest, and everything in-between, whilst stroking her hair and cuddling her. Sometimes he’d sing for her, and the sound almost made her weep, for no lovelier voice was ever heard. After that, he would of course make her read a book. She had no quarrels with that, for she loved books. 

Once she had even chosen the Lyseni book, and watched him blush and flush as she read the passages out, her accent tickling his ear pleasantly. He bit his lip with a burning gaze as she read the more frivolous details. When she was done, he had taken her so fiercely that she saw proof of his dragon’s blood. She craved more of it, and her husband was never opposed to the idea. 

Soon after, the maester notified Mariah that she was with child. Daeron grew overjoyed, and sent letters to his mother, uncle and the king. He sent one to his father as well, but it was curt and only said that Mariah was with child. No reply was sent by Prince Aegon. Her husband threw a feast to celebrate coming princess or princeling, and the night had been filled with mirth, laughter and wonder. 

Prince Daeron would stay up during the nights, feeling as her belly swelled with their child, and told it stories. They juggled names back and forward, but decided on Baelor if it was a boy. The king had brought them together, and made peace with both their lands, it was a worthy name. Mariah chose Maegelle, if it was a girl, for she wished her daughter to have a healing, kind heart. Daeron agreed wholeheartedly. Contrary to Mariah’s beliefs, Daeron desired her company even more, when she was with his child. He was always there for her to lean on, and would massage her back and swollen feet, or wherever it ached. She thought that his cravings for her would also cease, as she grew larger, but she was wrong in that, as well. 

On a stormy night in 170 A.C, Princess Mariah Martell gave birth to their first son, whom they named Baelor. He looked beautiful, with dark hair and amber eyes-- yet something nagged in Mariah. She had wished to give her husband children who looked like him, so he would not be made mock of by the court, or for wicked rumors to spread. Daeron sensed her unease and heartbreak at the prospect of her sweet son, having japes made of him. 

“He is our son, and he is beautiful. Targaryen through and through, you’ll see,” her husband whispered and she nodded, but her eyes looked cloudy.

The next three children she gave her husband, looked Valyrian to their very cores. First came Aerys, then her sweet and simple Rhaegel. Lastly, Maekar came. No daughters were born from their union, and her good-father became king after his own father’s death. When Aegon IV finally perished, her husband ascended the throne, and Mariah became his queen. It was a troublesome time, however, as rumors of Daeron’s illegitimacy continued spreading, and his bastard half-siblings, peasant or noble, had all been legitimized. 

What a mess her husband’s fool of a father made, of the realm. They would all pay the consequences, in one way or another. 

Her father’s words rang true in her head. 

Love can be borne out of duty. 

 


	27. I hope you remember this moment (I'm not coming home again).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pivotal moments of Lady Jocelyn Baratheon's shared life with her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and here's the Jocelyn/Aemon chapter for those who requested it. 
> 
> Literally I had been stuck at 1,5 pages for like two weeks until something must've clicked and this is the crazed result. This chapter beats the OG trio for the award of the most pages, by quite a lot. Last I checked, this badboy was 23 pages, so y'all are in for a quite a ride lmao. 
> 
> They never told us how Jocelyn perished, but there was no mention of her during the dance or after that, so I assume she died of something before that, this is my take on it. I also made Aemon's eye color the middle-ground between both descriptions because GRRM first said ''Lilac'' and then ''pale violet" so idk what to believe at this point.
> 
> Idk how I feel about this chapter though, it seems like it begins quite fine but just mellows down toward the end, perhaps because I wrote it feverishly at like 3 am but yeah, just a warning the end may be trash. I'll probably edit this quite a lot when I edit this entire series. Alas, I have not quite gotten around to it, so this chapter is very much unedited. 
> 
> Please leave a KUDOS if you enjoyed it and I would love your comments on this chapter, to let me know what you thought etc because i've explained that idk if it makes total sense, and my POV may be biased reading my own work because I understand where things came from, which is not good when you're wondering if it makes sense.
> 
> sorry for this confusing rant lmao 
> 
> until next time, I actually don't know what pairing to do now, but i'll have a look at the list of requests.
> 
> Thx for all the kind comments and support <3

 

 

 

“Do you remember when we first fell in love?” Jocelyn asked Aemon with a wistful sigh, as he toyed with her dark hair. She felt him laugh in relish, the baritone notes making his pale chest vibrate against her cheek. 

“For me, it was when you told me you would nick the Valyrian scrolls from the library, and read them long after your bedtime, with only a candle by your bedside and the howling of the wind, to keep you company.” The statement brought a soft smile to the lady’s lips. _We were so young, and yet he remembers._

“I always returned them,” she told him petulantly, even though it amused her. 

“Then borrow, seems a more apt word. Yet I do recall the grand-maester throwing a fit, thinking someone had stolen some old, dusty scroll that was of great importance.” Jocelyn snorted and broke out in giggles. 

“I had to sneak in during the black of night, like a thief, to place it behind some old volumes, where I knew he’d find it, come the morrow.” Aemon almost began howling with laughter, and tears of mirth slid down Jocelyn’s cheeks as well. 

“Stop it, Aemon,” she laughed. “I almost pissed myself in fear of what consequences would be handed to me, if anyone found out; or gods forbid, that old hag I called my septa.” 

“Those are not very lady-like words, Lady Jocelyn. We must wash your mouth out with soap. The gods don’t accept disobedient girls, into their heavens,” He scolded, imitating her old septa, Karyn. 

“That old hag can shove that wooden stick of hers, up her arse-- instead of disciplining young girls for being girls, with it.” Aemon snorted and Jocelyn craned her neck to look at him. 

What a sight he was, with those pale, lilac eyes-- closed in mirth. The aquiline nose, soft, plump lips and curve of his clean-shaven jaw, looked exactly like the depictions of Valyrian Gods, she had seen in her scrolls and volumes, of the ancient freehold. Though Jocelyn had Valyrian blood as well, on her mother’s side, she inherited the dark hair and eyes of her Baratheon father. However, no one could say that she was not beautiful, even in common colors such as brown and black. Jocelyn was tall, an inch shy of six feet, but her husband stood at three inches taller than her. They fit together like the sun and the moon. He was glowing and she was luminescent because of it. _We were meant to be, and I thank the gods each day, that they allowed our union to move forward._

“Well, that would have been all that septa would ever have taken up her arse… or any other hole for that matter, I'd wager,” Aemon said with a wicked grin. Jocelyn mirrored his smile and kissed his smooth jaw, with a giggle. 

“You are most like correct, husband,” she whispered good-naturedly. 

“I always am,” he teased and she shook her head. The lady rejoiced in these soft moments, alone with her husband. They had known each other for half their lives, and were only whole, together. 

Melancholy to her core, Jocelyn oft found it hard to be like the ladies around her. _I am not like them,_ she knew. Her mother had died, to give her life and no one truly cared for her existence, after that. _Not until I came to King’s Landing._ Her aunts favored their children, rightfully so, but she wished to have been loved as a young girl, to be treated as their own, even though she was not. Her brother cared little for her, too busy preparing to be the new Lord of Storm’s End. Her father… he saw her mother as he looked upon his daughter, and all it had cost to bring Jocelyn here. _He was too busy drinking and whoring to love me._

Aemon brought out something in her, she was loved now. _By him, by my half-siblings, by Alyssa, Baelon and Maegelle._ Jocelyn had always tried to find her place and position, in a world that seemed indifferent toward her existence in it. _I’ve found it now, here. With my true family._ The Targaryens were the ones who cherished her and taught her that she was worthy of affection and love. Her melancholy would stay with her until the end of her years, she knew. But it was not half, of what it had been and she had finally been taught that enjoying herself was not wrong or selfish, it was a right. _Something everyone should have._

“Now, what about you?” her husband asked, as she rested her head in the crook of his warm neck-- feeling his warm hands trail down her back, in comforting strokes. 

“What?” she mumbled.

“When did you fall in love with me?” his question seemed wary, quiet and raw. Jocelyn had to think on it for a few moments, as they were three years into their marriage at this point, and the fifth anniversary of their betrothal was looming in the horizon. Jocelyn sat up, straddling her husband, to look at him with a liquid gaze, so full of devotion and affection. 

“I think it was when we kissed for the first time, in the shade of the godswood, amidst the ruffling of the green leaves and the eerie weirwood trees that made me weep, once.”

“I told you I’d protect you,” he replied with clear, lilac eyes. Aemon’s hair crowned his head like curls of white gold, spilling down his neck. She touched a lock or two, twirled them betwixt her fingers and rejoiced in how they felt like the softest of Myrish silk. 

“Not even the sun shone brighter than you, that day,” she told him truthfully and he laughed. 

“You looked alluring, like the moon. You had such an ethereal grace. I recall it vividly.” Her husband began to ponder for a few moments, perhaps searching for the right words. 

“It was in the way you moved, so charmingly haunting. It was in the dark of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the sway of your hair in the soft wind. You were celestial.” His words brought tears to her eyes. _What did I ever do to deserve a man such as him?_ It seemed almost a crime. To love this fiercely. 

“Do not weep, Joc,” Aemon pleaded, his pale eyes alight with worry. 

“I love you,” she told him. “Promise me you’ll always know, no matter what,” she begged him as a lone tear slid down her cheek. 

“Always.” 

Suddenly, his lips were on hers, silencing the way her heart danced with its melancholy. His kisses were love, _they are life._ Hands roamed her body, that her husband wagered he knew better than he knew himself. They had always been one, ever since they met and realised they were two halves of one whole. Jocelyn sighed into his touches, and Aemon smiled against her lips, as he separated her thighs with deft fingers, and so, they were joined as one. 

“Let us make that babe, the gods know that it is glorious to try.” Jocelyn groaned and took hold of his face with her fingers, as he moved into her. His pale, lilac eyes met her dark, liquid ones of the earth and darkness-- in a dance of lust and love.

“It shall be, if it is meant to,” she breathed and Aemon nodded with a soft smile. 

***

The years passed and the gods bestowed a babe upon the pale prince and his dark lady. They named her Rhaenys of house Targaryen, after the conqueror’s gentle wife, who perished before her time. Rhaenys was beautiful, with her mother’s dark hair, and the pale, lilac eyes of her father-- she was born as healthy and squabbling as was wished from a babe and Jocelyn recovered quickly from the birth. 

Aemon never treated his young daughter as if she was not worthy of his entire love, for the simple reason of being born a woman. Quite the contrary, he treated her as his heir, the one who would rule after him. Twas a beautiful dream, truly and Jocelyn was quite endeared to it. _Our sweet Rhaenys, the first Queen of Westeros._ King Jaehaerys had told them, during the feast to celebrate their Rhaenys’s birth, that Jocelyn and Aemon were still young, and could make a king of a son, for Rhaenys to wed. The words were spoken warmly, but left a bitter taste in Jocelyn’s mouth. Even Aemon pursed his lips and looked discontent, behind his false smile and grateful acceptance of the words. Later, when Jocelyn questioned him on it, he simply sighed, shook his head and fucked her. 

As they had been wed at a young age, many would have called it infatuation and expected that their love would weaken with the years that droned on. That was not the case, it seemed their love only grew from the day they had been declared whole. It only matured with age, like a fine wine. 

Many would have expected the Lady Baratheon and Crown-Prince Aemon Targaryen to be more vain and conceited. It would almost be their right, for the utter beauty they possessed, along with their fancy titles and Valyrian blood. Aemon remained strong, lean and tall; a renowned warrior and fierce dragon-rider, riding the great bloodwyrm, Caraxes. Jocelyn was beautiful with her melancholy, tragic sort of beauty. Her solemn nature drew you to her, lulling and enchanting, until you begged for more. 

Yet they were not. Wary and shy as a boy, Aemon was quite a solitary man, preferring the company of his wife and brother, over the fawning lords and ladies. Jocelyn was a dark and strange girl, a great beauty; but not quite what the world would have wished in a lady. Some would deem her too headstrong, although her prince loved it. Westeros liked their women meek and complacent. Jocelyn was a lady who should have been born a fierce Targaryen princess, though her Valyrian blood was present, it was never potent enough for her to claim a hatchling or a dragon of her own. Jocelyn was stronger than Westeros wished her to be, and women have to pay for that. They do. 

When Aemon turned six-and-twenty, he was appointed as Master Of Laws and Lord Justiciar by his father, the king. It was tedious work, but fitting for the heir of the throne, and you would not find Prince Aemon complaining. The only part he disliked, was how it was such consuming work, he wished to spend more time with his beautiful lady-wife and daughter. Jocelyn knew that Aemon had his duties and that it would do no good to put pressure on or stress him, so she remained supportive of her husband and helped where she was able. 

Though it was not only a time of mirth in their lives. With ruling comes violence, it is unavoidable, even in the most prosperous of times. You cannot please everyone and many made that known. First the Dornish tried to invade the Stormlands, a battle which her brother, her husband and her nephew won, in a day, burning the Dornishmen before they even made it to landfall. A great victory, indeed, but that does not mean that it did not frighten Jocelyn so much, that she thought her ashen hair would go as white as Aemon’s, in her worry. Her prince returned, battle-worn, but well and with a stupid grin on his handsome face that calmed her heart. 

***

“You bumbling idiot!” Jocelyn chided him, her voice tight and constricted with unshed tears. 

“What?” Aemon asked, his pale forehead creasing into a frown as he gazed at his wife, who had her arms crossed and a dark eyebrow raised. She did not reply, so he put his winged helmet on top of the table and began moving toward her, in powerful strides. 

Her husband looked infinitely beautiful in the light of midday, the sun’s rays making his pale, white-gold hair shimmer and glisten like an ethereal halo. He looked a true god. _A true warrior._ Aemon pushed some dark strands from her face, and gently cupped her cheek with his hand,  craning his head down to kiss her. She noticed his knuckles were bleeding, so was the inside of his palm. Jocelyn shook her head and pushed him away, her lips pursed. 

“You could have died,” she whispered, as the tears came uninvited. His lilac eyes softened and he got down on his knees, putting his head against her belly, and embracing her lower half. Jocelyn sighed as she ran her hands through his hair and cursed the tears that would not take their leave of her. Aemon kissed her stomach through the fabric of her dress, and then the side of her hip. 

“I did not.” His voice was soft and full of compassion. 

“You could have,” she chided in her voice of tears. Aemon looked up, his pleading eyes, so full of love, meeting her dark and sinful ones. 

“But I did not, Joc.” 

“I would not have been able to go on, if you would have.” Her pale hands continued stroking his hair and her heart danced with love. He was there, he was home where he belonged. With her. 

“I won’t ever leave you,” he promised, but who can make those guarantees? It is almost cruel to promise such things. Jocelyn did not reply, but felt the choking atmosphere of the room turn more wicked as the silent moments ticked on. 

“I missed you,” Aemon said as he deftly slid one of his hands underneath the bottom of her skirts, slowly trailing it upward as his wife’s breath hitched.

“You were only gone a day,” she replied and it sounded almost amused. 

“Too long,” he sighed against her, his warm hand running along the inside of her thigh, on the brink of sending her into a sure frenzy. 

He was on the verge of making her topple over, when she noticed a gash in his chainmail.

“Stop,” she said, but he did not, so she repeated herself, louder. Her husband moved back, and stood up, with confusion swirling like a lilac river, in his eyes.

“Did I not please my lady?” he asked and she looked at him and almost scoffed. _Of course you pleased me, my foolish man of a husband. Of course you did._

“Remove your breastplate,” Jocelyn commanded and Aemon smiled wickedly. She only rose an eyebrow, daring him to disobey her. With a graceful technique, he removed the silver-scaled breastplate and cringed as he put it on the floor. 

“That is strange.” “It stings,” he continued, with a frown. Jocelyn scoffed.

“Of course it stings, you have one of those embedded in your back, fool!” she chided, almost hysterical.

Half an hour later, Jocelyn sat there with linen bandages, a needle, thread and hot wine. Aemon looked petulant at the prospect of having it poured on his wound, but it is what the maester would have done.

“Do not be childish.” “You are not Rhaenys, now lay down on your belly” she continued and her husband scoffed. 

“Try having that poured down your back. I assure you, the beautiful lady Jocelyn would be weeping and writhing in pain.” She smiled. 

“It is fully within your rights to weep and writhe, husband. Pain does not make you weak, it makes you alive.” He remained mercifully quiet after that. 

Prince Aemon did hiss when she poured the wine into his festering wound, but she made a comforting shushing sound, and stroked his lower back in a soft manner. 

“Why could we not have the maester do this?” he asked, and sounded choked, not wanting his wife to bear witness to his weakness. _My sweet husband, trying to be brave. Leave that for Baelon. You are right to hurt. It is painful. Let the tears run their course of you, it will feel better after. I promise._

“Because I know how to do it. Besides, I want you all to myself.” Aemon laughed at that but it sounded empty. 

“Fuck,” he cursed when she poured another spoon of hot wine on top of it. It was a rather large wound, and would leave quite the scar, after it healed. Scars reminded Jocelyn that her husband was still human, no matter how many times, she would think otherwise. 

“Shh,” she comforted and stroked his hair, distractedly as she began to close the wound with a needle. _I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

“Make it fast, please,” he begged and it tore at her heart, to hear him like this. 

“Would you not like some milk of the poppy?” she asked, desperate to soothe his pain.

“No. I want to be here with you, I don’t wish to sleep our times away, before my duties resume.” Jocelyn nodded, and duly continued.

“You are doing great. You’ve been so good for me,” she told him, tearfully. 

“Fucking hell!” he yelled when she was almost done, his entire body quivering and shaking. Then her husband punched the headboard of the bed with his bloody fist, making the room rattle with the sheer force of the blow.

“Stop it! You’ll hurt yourself even more,” she pleaded and he calmed down.

“I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. Stay strong for me just a bit longer, ” Jocelyn promised and Aemon gritted his teeth but allowed her to finish. 

The linen bandages were soaked in the hot wine, then applied and the maester would have to keep attendance on the wound, but otherwise Jocelyn thought she had done a fine job. Years of sewing and embroidering had left her stitches neat and well-placed. _It will be a fiercely beautiful scar._ When it was done, she kissed his wound as she kissed his crimes. _Let the gods be the judges of felonies and if some evils are truly necessary. Aemon has a good heart, and I would kill the Mother, Maiden and Warrior alike, if they ever said he was not worthy of the heavens._

The hands had been a breeze to tend to. Aemon barely flinched, and sat there dutifully, albeit with his sculpted, pale chest heaving upward and downard, erratically on the occasion. She bandaged them as well, though not in hot wine. Then she rose and kissed his lips, softly. 

“You did well,” Jocelyn told him earnestly, and wiped away the remnants of his tears.

“Even the Warrior would weep, but you did not. You shed some tears in the throes of your pain but it does not make you any less of a man,” she continued, when he looked down. 

With the tips of her fingers, she moved his face up, so that his pale eyes could meet hers. Aemon was almost pouting, like Rhaenys would when she hurt herself, but did not want to seem weak. 

“I told you it would be alright.” Jocelyn moved to kiss him and felt him sigh into her mouth as he fervently moved his strong arms to touch whatever parts of her body that she could. _I am his, and he is mine. Always._

Groans of frustration escaped his lips, when all he could feel was the wool of her gown.

“Patience is a virtue,” she whispered against his pink lips, and he laughed.

“I lose all my virtues around the vixen that I call my wife,” Aemon replied but cringed when the pain reached him, yet again. 

“Unlace my gown,” she commanded in a silky voice but Aemon showcased his hands, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Jocelyn laughed at his play. 

“You wounded your knuckles and parts of your palm, your fingers remain deliciously intact.” 

“It hurts,” he pouted but she only moved to kiss them.

“Gods, it is like saying that if one gets stabbed in the arse, they lose function of their cock.” Aemon rose an eyebrow and spoke with a snide, false indignance.

“Well you should surely have perished then, if that was the case.” 

“Are you so sure about that, husband?” she teased wickedly and seductively leaned in, until their faces were mere inches apart. Aemon’s breath hitched and he bit the bottom of his lip until it turned scarlet.

“There are always other ways.” Her voice was a mere tantalizing whisper in his ear.

“That is sinful to say, Lady Jocelyn,” he chided with the voice of her old septa.

“It is no one’s business what I do in mine own bed, but my own,” she said, inspecting her nails with an indifference. 

“I’d like to hope it is mine,” Aemon said with an auspicious voice. 

“Sometimes it is not,” she said secretively.

“It is a sin to perform such wicked and blasphemous actions without the leave of your husband… and the gods,” he replied, continuing their little mummer’s play. It lightened the lady’s heart, for maybe her words could soothe his pain, more than the tiresome milk of the poppy could, without leaving his wits a mess. 

“The gods have not protested as of yet. Neither has that husband of mine.” Jocelyn’s dark eyes sparkled as the sun began to recede. 

“I am sure he would have something to say on the matter.” Then, warm hands turned her around, brushed the onyx hair away from the nape of her neck, and began untying her dress. _Oh, now he’s alright. Men,_ she thought amusedly. _They are easier to play than puppets._  

“Well…” Jocelyn said and pretended to think. “He has not said anything of it, as of yet. I take his snores as my leave.” A chuckle was heard from Aemon and he dragged her from her standing position, to sitting down in front of him, on the bed. Hot breaths inhaling deeply into the crook of her neck, sent shivers down her spine. 

Warm fingers continued unlacing the top of her gown.

“I did think I heard your voice in the hour of the wolf, once or twice. However, I brushed it off as a dream.” 

“You dream of me?” she asked and he finished unlacing her gown, and pulled it down her shoulders, to her waist. 

“Always,” he replied with the fire of a true Targaryen. Then bandaged hands were on her belly, softly caressing as lips kissed her back and down her neck, to the top of her breasts. 

“What do you dream of?” she asked and swore she felt him smile against her scalding skin. 

“Of you, Rhaenys and I, in a cottage by the shore. Away from duties and obligations, with the breeze in our hair and salt of the sea in our noses. I dream of you swelling with another one of my children, of our younger days. Everywhere I look, something reminds me of you, it’s always you.” Her heart burst and bled as she took in his words. 

“I dream of you as well. Of our family.” 

“I am pleased to have a part of your heart, My Lady,” Aemon whispered into the crook of her neck. 

“You damned fool, you have it all.” Every single piece of hers was infected with him. Such love is ruinous, however. They would come to learn, as all do. The greatest of things must always come to an end. It simply hurts something fiercer, when the bond is too strong for mortal words to describe. You should never allow yourself to love more than is apt, for the more you love, the more you hurt.

“I love you,” he said and Jocelyn turned around to kiss him wildly, she found herself stepping out of her blue and grey gown, with Aemon’s hands all around her, like some crazed deity. Jocelyn could not quite say, where she ended and Aemon began. They were one, with their fevered hands in each other’s hair, limbs against limbs, flesh against flesh. 

“As I do, you.” Aemon moved to lay on his back, for her to climb on top of him, but she stopped him in the last second.

“Will you ruin the fine stitching I performed for an hour, by ripping them open and leaving the wound to fester and bloody our bed?” she asked, incredulously. “I think not,” she finished with pursed lips.

“They would not rip open,” he whispered as petulantly as a child.

“Did you say something?” Jocelyn asked him with raised eyebrows. Aemon coyly smiled and shook his head.

“Sit up,” she told him, and he did as he was bid. Jocelyn noted the fine, sparsely placed cuts on his knees. _Most like from the saddle and Caraxes’s sharp scales._ Yet they were light, and would heal within a day or two. 

Instead, Jocelyn got on her knees and her husband had no quarrels with that, his erratic fingers running through her hair, and soft sighs, bore proof of it. 

“Jocelyn,” he said and then collapsed on the bed, moving to lay on his belly at the last second, before he would get a rude awakening from his pleasure. After that, she wrapped them both in furs, for the autumn weather was chilly. _Targaryens burn hotter than regular men, so of course he is not cold, but I am._

Jocelyn moved to get underneath her husband, for he was always so pleasantly warm, and it calmed her soul, to lay there, enclasped by him. Skin on skin and with his face in her neck. It brought her peace, a sense of serenity. As if nothing could ever hurt them, so long as they laid there. Sleepily, Aemon allowed her passage underneath him. 

“Night, Joc,” he whispered, half-asleep. A soft smile touched her face. 

“Goodnight, my love.” 

***

The first tragedy struck a year after that. Jocelyn’s beloved companion and niece, Alyssa, died after having birthed a son that would barely outlive her by six moons. The death of the bawdy princess shattered Jocelyn and Aemon, for they had always been close as siblings, all of them. IHowever, it absolutely killed Baelon and he would oft dream of a time when she lived, only to wake up alone in the midst of the night. It lead to Baelon having to be given milk of the poppy sometimes, for he would enter fits of unspeakable rage that no one could calm, after such dreams. 

Rhaenys missed Alyssa, as well. Often, the young princess would ask for her aunt Lyssa, only for Jocelyn to tell her that they would never see each other again, for as long as all should live and draw breath. Nonetheless, Alyssa was outlived by two sons.They were young at the time of her death, but it seemed to shatter Viserys more so, than Daemon. The youngest of Baelon’s children always seemed so carefree, as if the laws of men did not apply to him. It did bring a sense of ease, to watch Daemon in his games and flirts, for he reminded all, of Alyssa. _I will have to keep Rhaenys on her guard with this one,_ Jocelyn found herself thinking. _He is a charmer, and has beguiled many a maidens out of their smallclothes with that smile._

Their daughter grew ever more lovely as the years passed. Rhaenys became tall, almost surpassing her mother, with healthy, child-bearing hips and a sweet smile that many songs could have been sung about. Her eyes always reminded Jocelyn of Aemon but the nature was a mixture of both her parents. Solemn on the occasion along with the wariness of her father, some would think her stern, melancholy and petulant, but those who made the princess’s acquaintance knew that she was not. A clever young girl, she was, with the qualities of a great queen.

That belly of Jocelyn’s never swelled with another child, but it did not bother her or Aemon. They had their daughter and heir, Rhaenys. If it would be, then it would be. Aemon was almost religious in claiming his husbandly rights and even though King Jaehaerys often told them that he would pray the gods bestowed a prince upon Lady Baratheon and her prince, it did naught but make Jocelyn slightly cross with her brother. _We’ve given you an heir, content yourself with that. Simply because she does not have a cock, does not make her any less fit for ruling._ Even her sister, Queen Alysanne would purse her lips, each time Jaehaerys made such remarks. _It is a man’s world, yes, but need he remind us of it, day and night?_

When their daughter turned six-and-ten, she wed Lord Corlys Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark. He was of kin to Jocelyn, being her uncle’s grandson. It was a fine match, as the Velaryons were of Valyrian blood along with a noble and wealthy house. Rhaenys did seem to be endeared to her husband, who was almost as comely as the princess herself, with his strong physique, purple eyes and silver-gold hair. Lord Corlys reminded Jocelyn of Aemon, it was the way he held himself with such an external force and lithe grace. 

All was well for a few more years, until tragedy befell the Targaryens again. 

***

The year of 92 A.C had begun with joyous news. Their daughter, Princess Rhaenys was with her first child by Lord Corlys Velaryon and everyone was overjoyed. Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys threw a great feast to celebrate it, and once again, the king told her daughter that he was praying they’d have a healthy son. _Could you not have left it at a thriving babe?_ Jocelyn told her daughter that it mattered not what sex the child would be, it was a gift from the gods, nonetheless. Aemon agreed. 

By this time, Jocelyn was only a few moons away from her eight-and-thirtieth nameday, whilst Aemon had just recently turned seven-and-thirty. The pale prince remained as beautiful as he had, ten years prior. The only difference was the little crow’s feet around his eyes and their newly acquired wise, learned look. Jocelyn remained slim and willowy, with her milky skin, dark eyes and onyx hair. Not a hint of aging silver had taken residence in her hair. The Prince Of Dragonstone and his Lady Baratheon remained as enamored as they’d been twenty years prior. _How lucky we are, to have loved each other for two-and-twenty years. It seems almost yesterday, that we first met._ The years had passed all too fast, according to Lady Jocelyn. 

All was well, but there was still that dreadful ordeal with the Myrish pirates, on the Isle Of Tarth. It seemed to give both her brother and husband a severe headache to deal with the situation. Finally, it was decided that Aemon would lead an assault on the pirates and that their good-son, Lord Corlys would arrive with his fleet to join the crown.

_"I will be back before you know it, and I'll bring you the largest sapphire I can find, on this Sapphire Isle,” he smiled with sparkling, lilac eyes. Jocelyn frowned as she took his hands in hers._

_“It is only called the Sapphire Isle for the blue of their waters, there are no sapphires,” she lectured him and he laughed._

_“I know. I wanted to test your wits and it seems they are as they always have been; sharper than mine.” Jocelyn smiled at that._

_“There is something wretched about this.” “I do not think you should go, I have an ominous feeling,” she continued in a whisper. Her husband took hold of her chin and tilted it upwards, all the while leaning in until their lips were almost touching._

_“I’ll never leave you,” he promised. “You are stuck with me.”_

_“Don’t be foolish when you are there. Otherwise I will haunt you throughout the seven hells.” Aemon did not reply, but gently pushed her against the wall, kissing her fiercely._

_“I’ll always be your fool,” he said with too sweet of a smile. A knock on the door disturbed them._

_“It is time to depart, My Prince,” a knight spoke through the oaken door and her husband sighed._

_“I cannot wait until this is over and I can retire to simply becoming a grandsire,” he groaned._

_“Be cautious, Aemon. I love you,” Jocelyn said with glistening eyes._

_“I know, my love, as I do, you. I will be here in your arms again, before you know it,” he told her with a final kiss and then retreated._

Neither Jocelyn or Aemon had known it then, but that would be the last time they ever spoke. 

Aemon travelled on dragonback, which meant he arrived before their daughter’s husband and his ships. Secretly, her husband met with the Lord of Tarth, in his hiding place. Somehow, two Myrish scouts had found out where the Lord was hiding, and were sent there to assassinate him. The day had apparently been hot and humid, with swarming flies and the stink of manure. All the prince had wanted, was to return home to his lady-wife and daughter. 

According to sources, Aemon had been standing next to the Lord of Tarth as the Myrish pirates took their aim. A Mishap occurred, however and his arrow pierced the wrong man, taking Prince Aemon right in the throat. They said he died, choking on his own blood. There was nothing anyone could have done for him. At least that’s what King Jaehaerys told Jocelyn, in their grief, after she had been summoned to the throne room. _You could have chosen to never send him to that wretched place, and we would not be standing here, you could have offered them Fire and Blood instead,_ she thought bitterly. 

The revelation of her husband’s death, shattered Jocelyn’s heart. 

“You are mistaken,” she told her siblings, desperate to make it all a lie but they shook their heads. Hot tears burned down her cheeks and there was a gaping hole in her chest, full of sorrow that none but her dead prince could fill. 

“When will he be returned?” she asked, feeling as if she would faint any second. _No, you must remain strong. Be brave._

“I will loose Vermithor and fly there, this midday to fetch him, myself. “ King Jaehaerys looked as broken as he sounded. Queen Alysanne was weeping silently, next to him. 

“What happens now?” Jocelyn asked, furiously wiping away the falling tears. 

“What do you mean?” King Jaehaerys asked, a weary sigh escaping him. _He is old now. We all are._

“When will you announce Rhaenys as the Princess of Dragonstone?” she asked, pointedly. It was not because of ambition, neither for status. Jocelyn just wanted what was owed her daughter, what her late husband would have wanted. _I want to do right by them both._

“Must we discuss this now?” he asked. Queen Alysanne put a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder. 

“There will never be a more apt time,” Jocelyn told him. 

“Baelon is before her, in the matter of succession. For now, he will be the Prince Of Dragonstone, until such time that Rhaenys’s babe is born and we shall see, then.” The words sounded false, as if they were only spoken to try to calm her. _Is it because he does not want a Velaryon sitting the iron throne?_ Suddenly, Jocelyn thought she must be fully Targaryen, for the utter rage that coursed through her body, burning through her veins and turning her blood to steam. 

“She is the child of the eldest son, they come before the second child, in the matter of succession.” Jocelyn’s voice was sleeting ice, as fierce as the storms of the Stormlands.

“The son comes before the daughter. Aemon had no male heirs, not as of yet and I must announce a new prince.” 

“This is her birthright!” Jocelyn fumed and even Queen Alysanne was frowning at the king. 

“Jae, in Valyria of old, they were neutral in the matter of succession. It mattered not if the heir was male or female, it depended on the order of their birth and Rhaenys comes first.” Queen Alysanne sounded cross, but looked as if she was still trying to be amiable. 

“This is not Valyria, Alysanne,” the king snapped and the queen looked as if he had struck her. 

“No, this is Westeros,” Queen Alysanne replied, coldly.

“What makes Rhaenys subordinate to Baelon?” Jocelyn asked and Jaehaerys moved to speak, but her voice silenced him. “She is learned, educated in matters of state, religion, history, sums and mathematics. She speaks Valyrian and the common tongue, with several other dialects. Aemon taught her all that is required to rule, yet you pass her along, on the account that she was not born with a cock between her legs.” Jaehaerys had nothing to say to that and Alysanne looked pleased with her sister’s arguing. 

“I am the king and this is my verdict, Lady Jocelyn,” the king replied tiredly. _Oh, you are tired? He may have been your son but he was also my husband and the father of my daughter. With him, died my heart._

“Maegor had a cock between his legs, as well. Was he a good king because of it? Did he do the Targaryens justice?” Jocelyn spit out and saw King Jaehaerys’s face darken. 

“Do not ever mention his name,” Jaehaerys warned. 

“How many had to die for you to ascend the throne? Viserys, Aegon and countless others! Now you sit here and deny the rightful heir, the right to be the heir! That makes you no better than him. Our mother would have been ashamed, she fought and lost so fiercely for you. For once, I am glad that she is not here to witness your despicable actions.” 

“Have care of your words, Lady Jocelyn. I will pardon them this once, for you are in the midst of your grief, but do not ever repeat such foulery to me, ever again!” Jaehaerys’s anger was only a drop in the sea, compared to Jocelyn’s. 

“I did not ask for your forgiveness,” she hissed. Queen Alysanne moved toward Jocelyn with a frailty that came with age. Kind, blue eyes met her vision but she shook her head and squirmed as Alysanne tried to embrace and soothe her. 

“Don’t fucking touch me, Alysanne,” Jocelyn whimpered, all the anger burning through her system like water, only to be succeeded by a hollow sadness. Her sister did not relent, but only hugged Jocelyn fiercer until the dark lady crumbled and began sobbing. Jaehaerys was moved by the scene, but not enough to change his mind. 

“I am sorry, my child,” Alysanne whispered and it only made the lady weep something fiercer. 

“I told him,” Jocelyn sobbed. 

“Told him what?” Queen Alysanne asked with a tender stroke to her sister’s back.

“That he should not have gone. I had a bad feeling.” 

“Oh, my girl,” the queen said, beginning to sob herself. One must not forget, that Queen Alysanne lost a child, as Jocelyn lost a husband and Rhaenys lost a father. Now, the queen had lost Daenerys, Aegon, Viserra, Daella, Alyssa and Aemon. No one ever loved a child more and had to suffer living through so many of their deaths. _It is not fair, but who said that the gods ever were? Sometimes it is as if they delight in our misery and pain._ Jocelyn’s thoughts were bitter as sourleaf. 

“I need to go,” Jocelyn said fervently, pushing her gentle sister away from herself. Dizzily, the lady stood up but almost lost balance.

“Are you alright, Jocelyn? Do you need someone to escort you?” _Always so worried for me, Aly._

“No, I’ll be fine. I must rest.” She did not bother asking for leave from the king. _The gods damn him!_

The steps to her chambers that she shared with Aemon were dreary and filled with a horrible sort of doom. Never again would she see his face there, waiting for her, or laying in bed resting, sitting by the table and writing or anything else. It hurt her, that she would never again witness his face light up, as he entered through the oaken door and was greeted by her presence. Bitter tears continued flowing down her cheeks, steadily as she reached their chambers. _It should have been that Lord of Tarth, gods forgive me but it should have been him. His should have been the life you claimed, not my Aemon’s._

The air that greeted her smelled stale, even though she had been sleeping here for the week that Aemon was gone. His tunic was still on the chair, the side of his bed remained ruffled because he could never bring himself to make it, himself. Jocelyn had forbidden the maids to touch any of his items, for it was a comfort to have them there, after he left. _I expected him to return, I wanted his body, not a corpse and some tunics.They will not warm me in the night, or care for me in old age._

Walking up to the white tunic, she took it off the chair and put it to her chest, hugging it as if it was him. She smelled it as well, breathing in deeply. _It still smells of him,_ she thought and had to choke back a sob. _He was meant to come back to me, you were supposed to walk with me, into the bounds of old age. We were meant to die at eighty, in each other’s arms-- together._

“You were going to be king, a great one,” she whispered. “I was to be your queen, and Rhaenys your heir. Now…” Jocelyn shook her head sadly. “I would do anything to have you here again, my love.” _I must be cursed, Jocelyn thought. First my mother, then father, then Daella, Alyssa and the others… When does it stop? It goes round and round, always leaving me. Why?_

 _He promised me, he promised me he’d never leave._ Jocelyn crumbled down to the floor in utter agony, she tore at her gown, sobbing, screaming and calling for someone who would never answer, _never again._ The beads that covered her bodice, broke free from their clasps and erupted all around her, leaving a rattling sound behind. Jocelyn could not find it in her to care. 

“Come back to me,” she begged. _Please, please, please._

A sudden numbness took hold over the Lady Baratheon, in her state of disarray. Her gown felt constricting so she crawled out of it, donning Aemon’s tunic instead. It was as if she surrounded herself with him, that it somehow made it so that he was not gone. _A lie,_ she knew. However, it was a sweet one, and we love those the best. Crawling, she made it to the bed and climbed up. _It feels too big for me._

His side smelled like he always would in the morning, or after they coupled. It was musky, fresh like a spring morning, completely and utterly alive. Exhaustedly, she moved to lay on his side, silent tears trickling down her cheeks. Jocelyn inhaled and closed her eyes, pretending that he was still there, waiting for a strong hand to caress her cheek with an unparalleled gentleness. 

“How did it end up like this?” she asked bitterly, and then fell asleep. 

That midday, Jocelyn dreamed of a time when her husband lived. 

* * *

 

She was in a meadow and the sun was glaring down at her, fiercely hot. Her long, dark hair was in a large braid and she was donning a long, flowy slip that rustled with the wind. A calm feeling enclasped Jocelyn’s heart as she took in the full extent of her surroundings. Flowers were growing, pink and black and green and blue. The sky was a soft azure and the grass half as tall as her. 

“Joc.” she heard someone call out, in a deep voice that sounded familiar. instantly, she turned around and saw a tall man in the distance, walking toward her. His hair was sparkling and glittering a white gold, his tunic half-unlaced, revealing the smooth, muscled chest beneath. 

“Aemon,” she called out fervently, tears burning behind her eyelids. _You’re here, my love, you’re here. Now tell me it was all a dream._

She ran into his arms and he picked her up, twirling her around and kissing her cheeks like he used to. 

“It was all a dream, then,” she told him dazedly but he did not reply. 

“I missed you, Joc. It is lonely here, on the other side,” he told her instead, his pale, lilac eyes burning bright in the light of the day. _What does he mean?_

“I missed you, as well.” her eyes were glittering with unshed tears.  “I thought I lost you,” she whispered.

“I will always be here for you, I promised, remember?” A painful smile of grief touched her lips. “Yes, I do.” Her husband put the damned sun to shame, with his glowing smile.

“Has Rhaenys birthed the babe, yet?” 

“No, she still has seven moons to go.” 

“I wish I could have been there to see it,” he said and Jocelyn looked at him with a frown.

“But you will.” Aemon smiled but it did not quite reach his eyes. A warm hand reached out to touch her belly in a soft caress. 

“I am sad to never be there, to see it swell again.” His voice was quiet but she shook her head, feeling dazed in the midst of the hot day. 

“We have Rhaenys. It was enough for us.” 

“We should have left for that cottage by the shore, when we had the chance,” Aemon said and Jocelyn giggled. 

“Yes. Life would be a simpler thing, then. No one asks to be born a crown-prince, it simply happens. You made better due with it, than anyone ever could have.” Her husband smiled sweetly at that. 

Suddenly, he lowered her down amidst the grass and pretty flowers, putting his lips on hers in a tender kiss, it felt so raw and real that she felt the slickness of tears touch her cheeks. 

“I love you,” she breathed in-between kisses and her husband nodded, removing his tunic and her slip. _He is the Warrior and I, his Maiden._ Warm hands caressed her body and she closed her eyes in bliss as fevered kisses touched her collarbone, neck, stomach and breasts. 

“Aemon,” she breathed but abruptly, gooseprickles covered her body and a harrowing, choking sound greeted her. 

Jocelyn opened her dark eyes, only to find her husband clutching his throat, the scent of death and decay eclipsing the beautiful meadow. The sun had dulled and was no longer shining

“No, no, no!” she screamed and tried to help him, but it only resulted in her hands being covered in scarlet liquid that stained her body, as well as his. Aemon tried to speak but she shushed him. How scared he looked, as if he was a young boy all over again, who had no clue what was happening. 

“No, don’t speak,” she told him with painful tears and a choked sob. Carefully, she placed his head in the crook of her shoulder and stroked the top of his head, whilst the other put pressure on the weeping wound. The tips of his white-gold hair became streaked with red, but mercifully, Jocelyn closed her eyes toward it. 

“Think of Rhaenys and her babe, our grandchild,” Jocelyn said with a broken smile and a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Of our cottage by the shore and my belly swelling with another child.” His movements grew more crazed, so she held him tighter. 

“It is okay,” she wept. “You can go, me and our girl will be alright. You have my leave.” His body calmed at that.

“I love you,” she whispered time upon time, until his body ceased to convulse and he was a cold corpse, in her arms. When she opened her eyes, she was horrified by the sight. He was bloated and blackened, covered in enlarged veins, with graveworms crawling out of him. The most horrifying part of it, was those lilac eyes that she loved so well, remaining open and wide. Jocelyn screamed when a graveworm began slithering over her arm, but repressed the urge to run away. _He is my husband, I shall stay with him until the bitter end._

“My sweet, dutiful Aemon,” she cried as she cradled him, the way she used to cradle their daughter, rocking back and forward. 

Without warning, she saw a large fire begin to emerge in the horizon, coming for both of them. There was nowhere to go, no place to run and hide. Jocelyn accepted her fate with resignation, _I shall be with him. Death is not so great  a price to pay, for that._

Hot, white and orange flames touched her skin and she screamed but it sounded like the song of a phoenix. _From the fire we are reborn,_ she found herself thinking as the heat blistered her arms and blackened her skin. The pain was unimaginable, scorching her very heart and washing her clean. The flames licked at every inch they could get of her, but they set her free. They set her mind free from its shackles and cleansed her soul. 

The fire cared little for her tears and sorrow. 

* * *

She woke with a start and turned around, looking for Aemon. Jocelyn barely knew where she was, but she knew that she needed her husband. Her neck felt slick with sweat and the room smelled of sin and sorrow. 

“Aemon?” she called but no reply was given. Then it all came back to her, his death, Jaehaerys passing Rhaenys along with the unborn child over, in the line of succession. For a moment, Jocelyn felt the room chill in temperature, even though the day had been pleasantly hot. Aemon was always so warm but now that she was sleeping alone, she was starting to freeze. _It is too cold and desolate here, without him lighting it up with his presence. You were too young, my love. Too young to die, but they all were._

Then her thoughts befell her daughter. _Oh, my girl. I must see Rhaenys._ Feverishly, the lady dressed in an old gown that Aemon favored, even though it was well-worn and full of old memories. She wore it the day they first kissed in that Godswood, remarkably, it still fit her perfectly. The colors were red and a dark blue, with red stitching. Aemon said it made her look every inch a queen. _I’ll never be that, but I wouldn’t have wished to either, if he was not there to be my king._

Rhaenys was stuffing gowns and gems into a coffert with an angry grace as Jocelyn arrived at her door. 

“That damned old man is called the wise, when he publicly disgraces me by passing my claim over. I am the child of his first son, I am carrying his great-grandchild within me, it is against the laws of succession he is claiming to be following. What does Baelon have, that I do not, mother? We received similar education, I am even of higher claim. How does a cock between your legs, make you worthy of kingship? It is the content of your character that should count, not your ability to fuck whores and father children upon them!” her daughter fumed and rightfully so, there was nothing that justified King Jaehaerys’s treatment of his grandchild. 

“You would have been the greatest queen who ever was, my child. Even the Queen called you our queen to be, as you were a babe in arms. I know not where this comes from.” Rhaenys’s pale, lilac eyes reminded Jocelyn so much of Aemon, that the mere sight of them made a sob lodge in her throat. 

“Oh, mother,” Rhaenys said and embraced Jocelyn and kissing her cheek. 

“He loved us, we must hold on to that.” Lady Baratheon smiled tearfully. 

“What did I do to deserve such a wise and clever girl?” 

“You wed father,” Rhaenys said and Jocelyn nodded.

“I did. Yes, I did.” 

“This is a cruel injustice that is being done to you, my sweet girl.” 

“Corlys and I are leaving for Driftmark. We will not stay a day longer in this wretched court, after we sent the fleet of house Velaryon to help Tarth. All we received was father’s body and scorn.” Even as bitter as Rhaenys was, she still managed to look beautiful whilst sneering. Jocelyn placed a calm hand on her daughter’s belly. 

“You must not stress, it is not good for the babe.” 

“Come with us, mother. Please, there is no place for you in their hearts now that father is gone.” The words sounded ashen but still, they were true in some awful way. The younger children of Jaehaerys and Alysanne were not close to Jocelyn and the rest were dead. Jaehaerys would earn no kind words or warmth from his sister, only Queen Alysanne remained high in Jocelyn’s esteem. 

“I cannot, my sweet child, here I will be close to your father’s ghost. Driftmark is as foreign as Storm’s end is to me, now.” Rhaenys frowned but nodded, nonetheless. 

“I understand but please take care of yourself, mother. I will visit and you must, as well.” Jocelyn kissed the top of her daughter’s head and nodded.

“Never will I ever leave you.” Those words truly seem cursed, do they not? 

The next day, they were allowed to view the corpse of her husband, before he was given to the pyre and burned. 

Aemon laid on a piece of marble, dressed in a rich doublet made of black velvet and red silk. He is even adorning a crown, a symbol for the king he was meant to be. The silent sisters had closed his lilac eyes, so never again would Jocelyn be allowed to marvel at their ethereal beauty. 

Her fingers stroked his clean-shaven jaw and then touched his pale hair. It felt strange. _It feels wrong, it is too stiff, too straw-like. His hair was always soft, like myrish silk._ Even his color looked wrong, _it is too pale, he looks constricted with that awful scarf around his neck._ The sickly sweet smell of death loomed in the room, promising a forthcoming doom. 

Leaning down, Jocelyn kissed his cheek for the last time but it was so cold. 

“I would not know where to start,” she smiled emptily. “You were always warm.” Salty tears covered her flushed cheeks and she desperately tried to wipe them away. No reply was heard, he looked as hard as granite-- almost statuesque. 

“You should have stayed,” Jocelyn said, allowing her tears to fall freely from her face, down onto his cheeks and nose, before carefully wiping them away, with dainty fingers. 

 Not being able to stand being there any longer, Jocelyn quickly gave him a kiss on his unmoving lips, before speaking her last goodbyes.

“It seems broken promises are a way of life.”  “I love you. We will meet again.”

***

The moons after her husband’s death seemed strange, as if the world was not in color anymore. Jocelyn ate but little, yet she was plagued with a retching sickness, fevers and fatigue. She was averse to many foods she used to enjoy and she could not recall a time where she had ever felt this sick. The lady put the sickness off to the stress of her husband’s death, but Queen Alysanne forced her to visit the maester. Jocelyn still slept with the linen tunic and on Aemon’s side but gradually, his scent decreased until she could barely catch a hint of it. 

The maester smelled of old books and dusty chambers, it nauseated the lady to even be in his presence. She could count the wrinkles on his weathered skin and found herself reluctant to allow his blemished hands to prod and poke her. 

“When was it you last had your moon’s blood, My Lady?” the maester asked shakily and Jocelyn could not quite remember. _It was before he left, I know, for he complained when I would not bed him and said that it was natural, that no amount of blood could ever make him repulsed by me._

“Before my husband perished.” The maester nodded and continued frowning.

“You are seven-and-thirty, correct?” Jocelyn nodded. She was one moon away from her nameday. 

“Some foods make you ill and you have been experiencing sickness during the…?” 

“The mornings,” Jocelyn finished and suddenly she found herself gasping. 

“I am not-” 

“-With child?” the maester asked with kind, green eyes. “I suspect that may very well be the case,” he finished. 

“How did I not know? He has been dead for moons.” The maester touched his beard wistfully and spoke. 

“There have been ladies who have shown no signs of being with child at all, until they birth one in their chamberpot. It is unusual for you to not have grown very large, I agree, but it happens on the occasion. You are in the midst of your child-bearing years, after all.” _I cannot be with child, she thought wildly. Aemon is not here, what will I do? Will Jaehaerys pass this one over, as well? In favor of Baelon?_

Her good-brother and nephew had remained apologetic regarding the ordeal, but not apologetic enough to renounce his claim to the throne, even though he knew that his brother’s daughter was with child and had the better claim. Jocelyn could not find it in her heart to scorn Baelon, however. _Aemon loved him, we were all so close, once. It is not his fault that his father bestowed this upon him, he never asked for it. We must make due with what we are given. I am sure he voiced some complaints in the beginning._

Jocelyn did not wish to tell her brother, but she knew that she had to. Otherwise rumors of infidelity would swarm the court, as one cannot get themselves with child. She had not been bedded since Aemon died. _Never will I ever bed another man._

Jaehaerys congratulated Jocelyn on her pregnancy, but made no claims to pray for a boy. The king also commanded Lady Jocelyn to not tell more than necessary of her pregnancy, as it would cause a frenzy in court, leading to factions being created and looming chaos. If she had not been so tired, maybe she would have spited him. Alas, she agreed. _The imbeciles at court will most like think that I am simply growing fat, as the babe barely shows. Let them, I care not for their opinions._

Queen Alysanne was delighted for her sister, in a bittersweet way. 

“Now he gives you a gift from his grave,” she said, but it did not feel like a gift to her. _A gift would be Aemon’s life. It sounds cruel and horrid, but I would trade this babe’s life for it’s father, in one heartbeat. My mind would not even falter._ Knowing that she would do that, covered her with the stickiness of shame. _What kind of a mother thinks that way?_ She asked herself. 

The entire duration of her pregnancy seemed a feverish daze, almost a dream. It did not truly feel apart of her. She felt it in her body, but not her soul. Jocelyn sometimes found herself thinking that it was all one cruel jape that she would soon wake up from. She never did. The maester had told her that she was due to give birth one moon before her daughter, Rhaenys, so the princess was there with her mother in the late stages, caring for her. 

“You’ve grown so great with child, Rhaenys,” Jocelyn smiled as she touched the small swell of her own stomach. 

“Yes, this one grows fast and seems restless in my womb. It longs to get out, to ride dragons and be the captain of its father’s fleet.” A lovely smile touched her daughter’s lips, but it quickly soured as she saw the king pass them by. Fortunately, he was busy conversing with a lord, to notice them. 

“I cannot wait until we meet them both.” 

“Neither can I, mother. They will be close as siblings” They should have been careful what they wished for. 

Jocelyn’s water broke one moon before she was due to give birth, like her mother. Something felt wrong this time, the Lady could feel it in her very bones. A darkness loomed in that bedward. Her daughter and Queen Alysanne were called, to assist Jocelyn in the birth but the babe came quickly and gruesomely. 

Through a screeching agony, Jocelyn was told to push.

“Something is not right” she cried and the maester looked at her with worried, green eyes. 

“Push, My Lady, push!” he told her and she did. With all the strength that was left in her, she screamed, wailed and pushed. 

“Please,” Jocelyn begged. “I cannot anymore.” Someone had arrived and was wiping sweat from her brow.

“You can, mother. Do it for father, do it for me.” Jocelyn could not argue with that sweet voice, so she did as she was bid, and this time, she felt the babe escape her but something else was continuing to gush out of her. _I am too tired to look. It must simply be the remnants of the water,_ she found herself thinking but it was only to soothe herself. Deep inside, Jocelyn knew that it was not water, she simply did not want to acknowledge it.

“Why is it not crying?” she asked, almost hysterically, barely able to keep her eyes open. 

“My mother asked you a question!” her daughter snapped as she kissed Jocelyn’s forehead.

“You did well, mother. I will need you here to do the same for me.” The maester was busy with the bundle in his arms, yet no cries were heard. 

“I am afraid,” the maester began, “That the boy is stillborn, my deepest apologies” he finished, somberly.

“Give him to me,” Jocelyn commanded.

“You need not bear witness-” 

“Give him to me!” she screamed with the last of her strength. Then she closed her eyes and waited for the maester to bestow her son upon her. 

A bundle was placed in her arms, with dazed eyes, Jocelyn took the extent of her son in. 

“Doesn’t he look like Aemon?” she asked Rhaenys and the girl nodded with tears running down those lilac eyes of hers. 

“He has father’s hair,” Rhaenys said in a tight voice, as she pointed to the pale wisps of white-gold hair. 

“I wonder if he would have had the eyes, as well.” 

“I suppose we’ll never know,” Jocelyn said as she began weeping. 

The babe was a beauty, truly his father’s son. _My little boy,_ she thought as she held the limp body in her arms. _I am so sorry, you deserved to have lived. Was it I, who cursed you?_ Queen Alysanne stumbled into the chamber of death, with blue eyes full of worry. 

“Jocelyn,” she sighed in relief but gasped in shock as she took her sister in. 

Lady Baratheon followed her sister’s eyes and looked between her legs. A pool of crimson blood lay there and she could still feel it trickle out of her.

“Do something!” the queen yelled at the maester but Jocelyn shook her head.

“There is nothing to be done,” Jocelyn said sorrowfully. Rhaenys began weeping. 

“Mother you cannot leave me,” she whimpered. Jocelyn tiredly cradled her firstborn with her one arm and leaned over to kiss the princess’s forehead. 

“You are not alone, my girl.” “I will always be in your heart, guiding you.” Death seemed almost an old friend, now. Coming to bring her peace, at last.

“I am sorry, Alysanne,” Jocelyn cried. She had treated Alysanne too coldly, the first moon after Aemon’s death.

“Hush, my sweet,” her sister said gently, stroking Jocelyn’s dark hair. 

The Lady turned to her son who remained a silent statue in her arms. 

“You were to have been called Aemond, after your father.” she placed a soft kiss on the babe’s forehead, then one on his nose and the last one on his cheek. 

“We are to meet your papa,” she feverishly whispered to the babe.

“No, mother,” Rhaenys cried but it all sounded so distant. _I will just close my eyes for a short moment. It will be alright, then._

“Do you see him standing over there?” she asked Aemond as she pointed to a dark corner in the room. _My sweetest ghost,_ Jocelyn thought. _Reunited, at last._ Their son had begun cooing softly in her arms.

“You were not meant to come so soon,” Aemon said somberly.

“Now we will all be together, we have our babe and each other. We will have to wait for Rhaenys, but she will come,” Jocelyn said with a frenzied smile.

“He is beautiful,” Aemon said with a sad smile. The babe opened a pair of dark, brown eyes, streaked with lilac.

“Isn’t he?” 

“Let us depart,” Aemon said with a long arm, outstretched toward her. Jocelyn smiled and reached out to grab it, the warmth enveloping her like he used to.

“I am yours, faithfully,” she replied, feeling the weight of her burdens be lifted off of her. 

Then Lady Jocelyn Baratheon closed her eyes, never to open them again.

They had forever now.

Princess Rhaenys would give birth to both a daughter and a son, yet both were passed along by King Jaehaerys. The second quarrel betwixt the king and queen were caused by that fateful day he chose his son over Princess Rhaenys. Alysanne could not fathom why he would do such a thing and that if he thought women so inept, he would have no further need of her, so she  left. Jocelyn grew to be a distant memory at court, forgotten by so many. 

The seeds of war are truly planted in times that many would call peace.


	28. Resentment is a seed that only grows.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhea despised her husband, as he did, her. It is known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why have my chapters started to get longer than the wait for The Winds Of Winter? This one is 18 pages so, idk, get a cup of tea, sit down-- get comfortable. 
> 
> Anyway; Here's a chapter of Rhea Royce and Daemon Targaryen. I have been lowkey apprehensive about posting this because I feel like it may get too heavy at certain points; idk-- Sometimes I wonder if my chapters unintentionally delve too deeply into the sexual aspects of relations and their lives. It isn't really intentional but I find that the way a character behaves toward their loved ones, their mistresses, their whores, etc-- says a lot about them and I personally feel like when I do write it, that it's coherent with the story, that it's not just there for shock value but that it plays a part. I'm rambling but leave me your thoughts if you have any on this concern, i'd be ever grateful. 
> 
> Then again; this is Daemon Targaryen and his sexuality has been a big part of his character and let's face it, the man had been wilding all of his life and I bet that he did even more scandalous things. This serves to give a little bit of an insight to how his first marriage may have looked like and how he would have behaved. Daemon was not a man who liked being told what to do and if he was intent on hating Rhea from the start, then I truly assume there'd be no middle-ground or effort from his side, to make it a prosperous marriage. This man wanted to be king, he must have wanted a Valyrian wife who did not water his blood down. Basically he most likely lived to scorn her, to spite her, to make her as miserable as he was. -- I hope I do both him and Rhea justice...
> 
> Anyway this was written at like 4 am, so forgive me for any incoherencies (I'll fix it when I edit the entire collection but 260 pages is a lot to edit lmao) 
> 
> Please leave a kudos if you enjoyed it, and a comment down below, telling me what you thought about it, any requests and basically anything. I'm a sucker for comments and I absolutely adore reading yours. 
> 
> Note: Dallyria Sand is a character that I created myself and thusly she does not exist within the ASOIAF world that GRRM created. I just thought it was a fun thing to create and imagine the backgrounds of a character of my own. Alas, that is not how the Dayne's received their Valyrian features and even if it had been; Dallyria married a fifth son to her uncle, thus not an heir or anyone set to inherit-- so her children would not be ruling Daynes in their own rights. 
> 
> I don't know what i'll write about next, so i'll see you the next time I post :) 
> 
> <3

 

 

 

“You could take care not to show up drunk and stinking of whores, to supper with my family,” Rhea told Daemon as he defiled her very chambers, by the simple use of his presence there. Cold, purple eyes narrowed as they met her green ones. 

“I will do whatever pleases me, I am a prince,” he replied arrogantly. They had been wed for two years now and Rhea was two years older than the prince, making her twenty, about to turn one-and-twenty years of age. 

“You should be proud, I found the one good whore in all of Runestones. She surely made up for all this wretched place lacks, in everything else. Should I give My Lady her name? I am sure you could get her for half the price if you give yourself to one of the patrons-” Daemon’s words were cruel and mocking, Rhea could no longer stand their bitter taste, as she had for the entire first year of their marriage. _I tried to be amiable, good for him-- yet he scorned me every chance he got._

“-Be quiet!” Rhea’s voice was cold as stone, piercing through the very walls. The prince looked taken aback, before he took long strides toward her, eclipsing her presence with his. 

Though tall, for a woman, the Targaryen prince had five inches on her and was built as gracefully as only a killer could be. _He is beautiful,_ that, not even Rhea could deny. _Yet he is cruel, arrogant, reckless and dangerous. A truly rotten seed_ . She had once foolishly thought that she could grow to love him, that she would wed him and have beautiful babes of her own. Alas, he showed his true nature during their bedding. A hateful, empty smile covered her features. _Daemon does love a game and he played his part very well._ The prince had been indifferent toward her before their wedding, yet Rhea never knew a man could be so mocking and cruel. All she had known before they wed, was that Daemon Targaryen was not a man to be held back and that he was not glad to be wed, but it was no excuse for his petulant behavior.  

_The prince relished in the bedding ceremony, making bawdy japes toward the ladies and proudly displaying the body that the gods had blessed him with. When all the lords and ladies left, the prince turned immediately, to the pitcher of wine. He filled his goblet with the dark liquid and drank deeply, the wine staining his lips red and making them glisten sinfully, in the light of the room._

_A disdainful look clouded his features as he gazed at her whilst continuing to sip on his wine._

_“I was always enticed toward the prospect of deflowering maidens but somehow, I find this moment lacking.” The words sounded so smooth on his tongue, like a lovely poem of old Valyria. Rhea knew that it was not, he was scorning her._

_“Alas, this is what I have to make due with,” the prince continued and finished the last of his wine, discarding the goblet onto the floor by throwing it backward with an aura of indifference. “The sooner we get on with it, the sooner it’ll be over,” he continued with a sigh, as if it was such a great burden for him to bed her. Rhea’s septas had never told her of this. Sure she had known the more carnal prospects toward the ordeal but she never knew a man could behave such as this on the eve of their wedding, especially princes of the blood._

_He was by her bed in mere moments, moving with an arrogant sway, as if the world was this for the taking. A golden brown eyebrow was raised and Daemon looked as if he was awaiting something. Rhea did not know what to do, so she smoothed her ginger curls behind her back, to give him a better look of her body. It made no difference, if anything, he looked even more repulsed. It tore at Rhea’s heart like nothing else and she could feel her body brewing with an ugly contempt for this man she was forced to call her husband._

_“Turn around,” he commanded and confusion clouded her eyes._

_“What?” she asked meekly.._

_“On your knees, I wish to imagine that I fucking someone else, otherwise you won’t find certain parts of me very cooperative.” Irritation and impatience laced his every word. She wondered who had fashioned him this way, why there was such hatred and evil in his heart. They were wed this day and this was how he chose to consummate it?_

_“Like your sister?” she spit out in anger, desperate to anger him the way he was enraging her. To her surprise, Daemon only laughed in amusement. Rhea cursed his laugh, for even it sounded like the finest of music._

_“Alas, I have no sister. I would not be here, if I would have.” The rage burning in her heart made her wish to scream, to slap him and curse him to each and every single one of the gods. Daemon remained mercifully quiet for a few moments after that, analyzing her with his cold eyes._

_“I think Rhaenys will do very well. A pity she wed Corlys, I would gladly have taken her as my wife. Gods the fire of her and that body... Now that is a woman who was born to be fucked,” he smiled, showing his fine teeth and a feeling of utter disgust covered Rhea._

_“How can you speak that way of your cousin, your own kin?” she asked scandalously._

_“You will soon find that there is not much that I would not do and my words may seem crude but they are as truthful as you’ll ever hear them.” He sounded almost serious, for that one fleeting moment._

_“Now I am weary of conversing, so brush that damned hair away and let us get on with this.”_

_“But my septas said that a woman lays on her-”_

_“-with my experience of whoring and fucking pretty, young maidens, it matters not what positon you are in, as long as you put your cock in the right hole, now be quiet, woman.” He pushed her down on the bed with the red canopy, roughly and she felt tears swim in her eyes. It felt wrong to cry, she was older than this man, yet he was, making her weep as a newborn babe in a cot._

_Rudely, he pushed into her without any previous warning and she almost screamed. Rhea had never known such pain, it felt as if her insides were chafing and burning. He was not meant to be there, it was too large to fit, too unpleasant and Daemon bestowed no mercy nor kindness upon her._

_“Stop,” she begged weakly but he ignored her pleas for him to cease, she did not repeat herself. All you heard was the prince grunting and breathing as he gripped her neck and shoulder painfully tight, and the Lady Royce occasionally crying out in pain._

_After long, insufferable moments, he finished and she felt something hot surge within her, but her body perceived it as wrong and foreign. A feeling of utter disgust covered her and when she looked down to her thighs, she noticed they were sticky with the prince’s dead princelings and her own blood. The sheets had a dark, red stain as well._

_“Go wash yourself,” he told her, repulsed, and she did not speak a word against it; but hardened her heart toward him, willing it to never feel a sliver of compassion for such a creature of evil and arrogance. From then on, Rhea would treat Daemon with the utmost contempt, returning every slight he threw at her._

“What did you tell me?” Her husband asked dangerously, his previous lighter mood, eclipsed with an anger that never truly left him. His words snapped Rhea out of her daze on the steps to the door of reminiscing. 

“I will hear no more of your cruel japes, Daemon. If you would not have the decency to apologise to me, then do it to my kin.”  A cruel laugh escaped his lips.

“I care even less for your kin than I do for you…which--let us do sums, equals nothing as when you have nothing from the start and gain nothing later on-- is nothing!” 

“They shall have no apologies from me. I am a prince, not some common peasant. Address me with respect, for you are no better than any of my whores.” She slapped him for that, fast and hard. Rhea’s eyes widened and her lips gained the most malicious smile when she saw the way it reddened and started to lightly bleed. One of her rings had scratched the side of his jaw. 

In shock, Daemon touched his cheek-- only to see the blood on the tips of his fingers. Then he backhanded her so hard that she fell to the floor. It hurt like the seven hells, but she willed herself to let out an abrupt, short and harsh laugh. 

“Fuck you, Daemon,” she spit out, tasting metal on her tongue and feeling her cheek pulse and grow numb. _That will surely leave an awful mark, yet knowing that I was able to truly crawl under his skin and make him bleed, will be worth it a thousand times over._  

“The whores do that well enough,” he told her, indifferent toward the pain he caused her, moments earlier.  

“Leave,” Rhea commanded him but he simply rose an eyebrow.

“I will leave when it pleases me to, or do you wish to have another bruise on the other cheek, to accompany that one?” 

“You may scare everyone else, but you do not frighten me. I have seen you, Daemon, and you are just a weak boy, as green as summer, playing at being grown. Feel free, strike me again and I will make sure that one of your prostitutes bites your cock off.” 

With a devious smile, Daemon waltzed up to her and put his face so close to hers, that she could see the swirls of purple in his eyes and all the flaws he did not possess. His lips leaned down, almost touching hers and she felt her heart quicken and her breath shallowing. Rhea closed her eyes for a brief second, only to feel a deft hand closing around her throat. Daemon laughed wildly. 

“It is so easy to fool you women. All it takes is a gentle caress or a bleeding heart,” the prince noted in disgust. “You are weak and a slave to your own urges. Do not ever presume to lecture me, for I can have your life in the blink of an eye.” Rhea clawed at his hand, wheezing and feeling tears leaking from her eyes-- Daemon would not relent. Instead, he leaned closer down to her face and continued speaking, with a depraved smile on his face. 

“Go ahead, have the whore bite my cock off but just know that I will enjoy every moment of tearing you apart, limb to limb, hair to hair. Nothing will be spared. Then I will do the same to each and every one of your kin until house Royce is no more. Do not worry, i’ll have a loyal man slay the children quickly. Let no one say that Daemon Targaryen is not a man of mercy.” Then he stood up and placed Darksister back in his scabbard, from its previous position on the table. Rhea was horrified by his statement. _For each time I answer, he finds a better way to silence me._

Rhea lapped in the air as if she had been drowning all of her life. She coughed and wheezed and her throat felt as if someone had stepped atop it and set it on fire. _I will not be able to speak on the morrow. Father and mother will know why. Everyone will know why, yet I must lie and they will pretend my false words are the truth. Such is the life we lead._

“Gods, I fucking hate gingers,” Daemon said, eyeing her with a fierce contempt. _Aye and I hate you arrogant, silver-haired cunts who think that everything is owed you._

“Why are you ev-” Rhea began but a knock on the door silenced her. 

“M’lady? I brought the tea you asked for,” a girl’s voice was heard from behind the wooden door. Quickly, Rhea dried her eyes with her red sleeves, smoothed out her thin hair and straightened the hem of her gown. Daemon scoffed at the display of false self-possession.

“Enter,” he called to the door and after a few moments, it timidly opened. 

In walked a young girl, perhaps two-and-ten years old, give or take a few years. Rhea smiled at the small, raven-haired child , who smiled back timidly whilst putting the tray of tea on the sturdy oaken table. 

“Would you like a cup as well, m’prince?” the servant asked as she poured a cup for her lady and Rhea noted that his cold eyes had not left the girl once, since she entered. 

“Might as well,” he smiled to the girl and she blushed fiercely. _If only you knew, my sweet. I Pray you never find yourself trapped with a man such as him,_ Rhea thought. _Look beneath his eyes and you will see his lies._ The aroma of fruit-tea covered the room and hid its sins. It was always the Royce lady’s favorite and she drank it sweetened with honey. 

Carefully, the girl brought the first, steaming cup to Rhea and curtsied. 

“Thank you,” Rhea croaked and the girl eyed her warily.

“Have you caught the chill, m’lady? Shall I have them draw you a hot bath?” the innocence of the young servant warmed Rhea’s heart. She replied with a soft, gentle smile. 

“No, I will be alright.” Lady Royce could feel Daemon’s cold eyes on the side of her face, analyzing the situation. 

Duly, the girl quickly brought the second cup to Daemon, looking down as she curtsied. Daemon reached out an elegant hand and tilted her face upward, by the help of his long fingers. 

“Was there anything else, m’prince?” the girl asked, her voice wavering. 

“Some sugar.” The servant’s brown eyes widened as she looked into his eyes of old Valyria, bearing witness to the swirls in different shades of purple, seeming entirely out of this world. 

“Thank you,” Daemon said and smiled so beautifully that even the maiden would have felt scorned in his presence. The girl’s warm, beige skin flushed at the compliment, but even more so at the prince’s tender stroke to her arm and cheek. _She does not truly look Westerosi,_ Rhea thought. _She must boast some eastern blood or perhaps Dornish--not many in the vale have that lovely skin or those pretty doe-brown eyes to match._ The servant was not uncomely for her age, but not extraordinarily comely either. Nothing made her stand out but something drew you in. 

“What is your name, child?” Rhea found herself asking, _perhaps the name will leave a clue to her heritage._

“Dallyria Sand, My Lady” she responded, her eyes cast downard, perhaps for the shame of being a bastard. 

“You are Dornish?” Daemon asked in surprise, ignoring Rhea completely. 

“On my father’s side, yes. He was a son to Lord Dayne of Starfall. My mother was a merchant’s daughter but she died giving me birth and me mother’s mother resides here in the Vale, so she offered me sanctuary for it was my mother’s last request.” 

“I am surprised at how well-spoken you are, for a servant, that is,” Daemon said but without his usual cruelty. The girl flushed harder and stammered out a thanks. 

“Me nana taught me to read and write to the best of her capabilities. She said a filthy mouth and simple words would do me no favor, as I aged.”

“A wise woman and she did a fine job,” Rhea replied and the girl was positively glowing.

“Thank you, My Lady.” 

“Aren’t you a beauty when you smile,” Daemon praised Dallyria and Rhea felt a shiver run through her spine as he spoke the words. She wanted this innocent girl to have as little as possible to do with her husband, for Daemon corrupted every single thing that was ever handed to him. _He will be her ruin, leave her be, she is a child, Daemon,_ Rhea thought, almost in a prayer. 

Later, when the servant had taken her leave, Daemon readied himself to depart as well, not wanting to stay longer in Rhea’s company than necessary. It left a foul taste in the Royce ladies mouth, how Daemon had spent time praising the girl until she was a blushing mess, inquiring on her life and charming her. That was not the prince that Rhea had come to know and she despised his false nature, for fooling young Dallyria in such a way. _He is more fickle than a fox._

Lady Royce had heard whispers from Daemon’s time in King’s Landing, rumors and things too difficult to be proven, but he had told her on their wedding night, that deflowering maidens was something akin to a favorite pastime of his. She wished with all her heart, that it was not what he would do to young Dallyria in a year or so. _She is barely a woman, I will not let him hurt her._ Her husband was a lusty man, fond of young, beautiful women and all the pleasures that life had to offer; just not when it came to Rhea and she was grateful. She liked bedding as little as she enjoyed being in the prince’s company. Daemon seemed to be reciprocative in those feelings, for he could barely entice himself enough to spill his seed within Rhea and sometimes he could not even bring himself to harden. Daemon was supposed to bed her today, as he did every second moon but she knew that it would do no good to even try. 

A door closing brought Rhea out of her thoughts. Daemon had left and did not bother announcing it. She could not bring herself to care, even the littlest of bit. 

***

Almost six years had passed since Daemon and Rhea were wed and time did nothing to soften them toward each other, if anything, their hatred only grew stronger. 

 _“Six years have felt like sixty-- that damned bronze bitch will be my ruin and I have never known life to be so dull as it is here, in the Vale. The sheep are prettier than their women, no wonder so many of the men choose to fuck them instead. Do you know how long it takes me to find a decent whore? My cock is soon like to fall off, in utter despair of his predicament,”_ Daemon wrote to his brother, Prince Viserys, who had inquired on how his little brother was faring. _You received Aemma, a skinny little thing but Valyrian nonetheless and probably a better fuck than the bronze bitch ever will be,_ Daemon thought heatedly. 

The utter rage Daemon had been filled with, those years ago when his father had lived, along with King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, when they announced his betrothal was a sight to behold, bearing proof of his dragon’s blood. 

_“You will still have your whores to content yourself with,” Baelon told his son, when Daemon had complained of the betrothal, for the umpteenth time._

_“Is that what you thought when you wed mother? That you’ll still have your whores? No, because you actually cared for her,” Daemon replied coldly._

_“Caring has no place in duty, Daemon. It is time you were tied down. A wild dragon is more dangerous than a tamed one.”_

_“And Viserys is the tamed one, I suppose?” Daemon scoffed._

_“Your brother has done his duty, without qualms.”_

_“Oh yes, fucking a girl of three-and-ten, barely off her wet-nurse’s teat… how dutiful and chivalrous of him,” Daemon sneered and Baelon sighed._

_“We cannot all have what we want,” his father told him calmly-- a melancholy taking over the words, giving them a sorrowful life, all of their own._

_“Just because you are unhappy, does not mean that I have to be. You still have your whores, if mother’s ghost is not enough to warm you at night any longer” Daemon spit out and knew that he had crossed the line. Few times had Daemon been disciplined by his father and this came to be one of those times. A harsh slap to his cheek stung like a wasp and bloodied his lip. Prince Baelon was fuming, even though he could have made the slap hurt a lot more than it did. It brought no joy to Daemon’s father._

_“You are far too insolent for your own good. We have given you all that any mere human could ask for. You are the blood of a great dynasty, with clear ties to the conqueror. You ride a formidable beast that once belonged to my brother. Yet the stench of green summer grass is still upon you, when it comes to pain and suffering. I have lived to see most of the people dear to me, perish. A brother that was to be king, a sister that was my wife, a mother I loved and siblings that I should have tried to understand better. What is done cannot be undone, but gods be damned if I ever hear you speak in such a way to me, again.” Daemon prided himself on being fearless but in that moment, he truly feared his father._

_“I apologize, father. I was lost in my anger,” Daemon said with a sincerity that was almost unknown to him. Baelon merely sighed wearily and sat down on the chair of his solar, running his hand through the silver-gold hair that had begun to turn slightly grey. Even past forty, Prince Baelon remained a handsome man, with many ladies lusting after him. Yet he never took another wife after his Princess Alyssa._

_“That was not becoming of me. I should not have slapped you,” Baelon said, rubbing his face in a tired manner._

_“I deserved it,” Daemon replied, not missing a beat. For he knew that he truly did._

_Prince Baelon gazed at his young son of six-and-ten, an unknown emotion swirling in them._

_“You look so much like her, but also eerily unlike her.” Daemon smiled roguishly._

_“All I will have to do is break my nose.” Baelon laughed but there was barely any joy to it._

_“Alas, yes. You have more than enough of her nature, however. I do not know how we made Viserys, ever the dutiful and amiable boy-- so unlike all of us.” His father’s words warmed him but also made an unknown sadness descend upon the young prince. Never would he be exactly what his father wanted, so what point was there, to even try?_

_Softness touched Prince Baelon’s eyes, making them sparkle in the midday sun of the solar. Suddenly, he stood up._

_“Come here, Daemon,” his father ordered and the young prince did as he was bid, albeit with a slight confusion._

_The spring prince’s intents were clear as Daemon came face-to-face with him. His son was an inch taller, but Baelon would always remember the small babe that he held in his arms. The first smile, first words and laughs. Suddenly, Daemon found himself embraced by his father and stiffened at the contact. If Prince Baelon noticed, he made no comment on it. After a while, the prince allowed himself to be held, to be a young boy without the shadow of his brother or duty hanging over him._

_“I am proud of you, my son. Never forget that,” his father began, kissing the side of his son’s head. “Alyssa would have rejoiced to see you today and Viserys, as well.” Baelon finished, close to tears, if one were to judge by the choked sound of his voice._

_“Thank you, father,” Daemon mumbled against Baelon’s shoulder, for that was where he had laid his head to rest._

_“This is a rich match, however much we may dislike it. The fruits you have been served may taste bitter to you, but you will have to eat them nonetheless. I promise you that it will not be as awful as you think it is. I hear she is not uncomely, with red hair and green eyes.” Daemon hated red-heads but made no mention of it, to his father. For once, the young prince was not selfish and allowed his father to find comfort in him. He could not lie, though. His father’s love calmed the prince and warmed his cold heart._

Prince Daemon was fond of remarking that the dragon does not weep but he did weep, once, at the least. 

He wept when he heard of his father’s death-- in the dark of his chamber with only those cursed gods bearing witness to what in Daemon’s teary eyes, was a sign of weakness. 

Not even the cries of a newly born babe, could rival the guttural pain and tears that Daemon supped on, that eve. 

Daemon thought his father could have worded her appearance better. Rhea had red hair and green eyes, yes, _but her hair is an ugly ginger color that I despise, not anywhere near auburn and her eyes are dull and the color of moss._ He did not enjoy how gaunt her face appeared nor the crookedness of her nose. _Her lips are as thin as paper, how is one to even kiss them?_ Daemon did not know, he had never made the effort to try. _And her skin, gods there is not an inch of her that is not freckled-- is unblemished, soft skin too much to ask for?_

A man of the world, Daemon had known many a bodies and knew just which one that inspired him to lust. The prince liked his women soft, with tantalizing curves, a sizeable bosom, plump arse and completely wanton for his depraved touches. His lady-wife was none of those things, she was slim as a stick, better compared to a boy of twelve than a woman flowered. There were barely any teats to speak of and believe the prince when he said that the ones she possessed, did not exactly inspire desire. The whores of the Vale were also more chaste than in King’s Landing, to Daemon’s dismay. _From the way they act when you ask them to couple with another whore, one would think them to equal the Maiden in beauty, alas no._

On his way to the yards, he passed the kitchen and saw the girl who served his wife, all those years ago. Lady Rhea was fond of her, he knew but he only paid such attention to Dallyria, to irk his wife. _She has grown,_ Daemon noted whilst licking his lips. _What can she be now? seven-and-ten? Give or take a year._ A common beauty, Dallyria was. Nothing made her stand out, as previously noted but she drew the eye, somehow. She left the prince wanting more and looked to belong to his refined palette, with the long hair, as dark as Princess Rhaenys’s, along with those brown eyes and diamond-shaped face. Dallyria looked delicate in a way Lady Royce never did, to the prince and he welcomed her soft curves and lissome body. 

Their eyes met and Daemon smiled tantalizingly. The girl blushed and looked away. 

***

Dinner with her mother and father was an awkward, stale and tiresome affair. 

“How are your relations with the prince?” her father asked and Rhea gave him an incredulous look, all the while raising an eyebrow. _You know very well how strained they are. We do not speak nor engage with each other, if not completely necessary. Daemon spends his time drinking and riding that beast of his, when he’s not riding his whores, of course._ For someone who complained and moaned about the whores of the Vale, the prince surely did frequent the brothels they had, and often. 

“Strained,” Rhea allowed as she took a bite of the parsley chicken. Her father gazed at her with sympathetic yet greedy green eyes, the same color as hers.

“You must try to mend them, Rhea. You can blame Prince Daemon until you voice is hoarse but I have seen no effort from your part, either.” An anger bloomed in Rhea’s chest. _Can’t all of you just begone? With your ambitions and meddling in matters that you have no rights to meddle in! Leave me be, I have done my part! I wed the most awful, wicked and horrible man in the Seven Kingdoms, I DID MY DUTY,_ she thought angrily. Lady Royce did not deign herself to reply and simply took a deep swig of wine, instead.

“Does he still claim his husbandly rights?” her father asked and her mother gasped.

“Harry!” her mother chided but Lord Royce waved it off. “Does he?” he inquired, yet again.

“Ask the whores,” Rhea spit out and her father grew angry by the cryptic, insolent replies.

“Do not give me cheek, Rhea!”

“No he does not. The prince has not visited my bed for a year’s turn,” Rhea finally allowed, with an indifference. Lord Royce pondered for a while before responding.

“You must needs bring him back to it, an heir is needed.” 

“And how do you propose I do that?” she asked scornfully? “By acting the whore?” her father’s face reddened as her mother gasped. 

“Yes!” Harry Royce boomed. “If that is what it takes to get you with child, then it is no large price to pay!”

“No father, it is only my dignity,” Rhea snapped.

“Are you a simpleton? Do you not understand the importance of this?” her father asked. Rhea remained silent. 

“He is a Targaryen, purebred since Aegon the conqueror! He rides a dragon, for the gods’ sakes. Your children would be dragonriders, we would hold power of all the Vale, with those terrifying beasts in tow. House Royce would be restored to an even greater glory than the Arryns! What other family than the Velaryons can boast dragonriders for children? This is your duty, Rhea!” her father snapped, entering an even more vivid daze, the longer he droned on. _Duty here, duty there. Dragonriders they would be, yet also his children. I would rather fall on a sword than have my children be like him._ Rhea doubted that her husband would even care for them.

“You will call him to your bed today,” her father commanded.

“He would-”

“You will! I care not what whore’s tricks you’ll use for it, but it must be done. He is a man and a lusty one at that, you should not face too much restraint.” _If only you knew, father,_ Rhea thought bitterly as she took her leave. 

Later in the eve, she had a servant summon her husband. Even as a woman grown, her father frightened her when he was with his anger. Ever the dutiful daughter, Rhea could not bring herself to go against Lord Royce’s words, even now. _Let it be quick and free from his incessant chatting and humiliation,_ Rhea pleaded with the gods. Prince Daemon arrived within the hour, his silvery hair glistening from a recent bath. It only made her angrier, how ethereal, alluring and handsome he looked, in that moment.

“I do not like to be summoned,” he told her in a bored voice.

“Believe me, I like having you here, even less than you enjoy being summoned” Rhea bit back and saw how Daemon’s purple eyes narrowed. 

“Did anyone ever tell you, that gingers were born and fashioned from the fiery pits of the seven hells?” Daemon asked her mockingly. Rhea eyed him with cold, green eyes. Prince Daemon thought they looked like two dirty chips of moss. 

“The gods also curse the brother who lay with sister and yet, here you are.” She was stubborn, fierce and not at all to the prince’s taste. 

“Yes, the gods curse the men who do but we are not mere men, we are gods. I will have Caraxes teach you, some time,” her husband replied coldly. Rhea scoffed. 

“I will have you bed me this eve, before you depart,” she told him, trying to act as if the prospect did not make her skin crawl. Her husband leered at her before he replied.

“Parts of me may not be so inclined toward that idea but if you are so wanton, then visit a brothel, for all I care.” His indifference fueled the hatred she possessed for him, within her body. 

“An heir to Runestones is needed,” Rhea told him cooly. 

“So that is what this is about?” he smiled condescendingly. “And here I was, thinking you were wooing me.” She almost gagged. 

“Alright,” the prince finally said, after silent moments of thinking. _Really? That seemed too easy._

“Remove your breeches then,” Rhea told him. 

“Oh, no” Daemon laughed wickedly. “If I should get to the point of even spilling my seed inside of you, I will need a woman to entice me.” He was confusing her, _I am woman enough, what do you mean?_

“I a-” she began but he silenced her.

“You would make my cock shrivel up in mere seconds,” Daemon dismissed her. “I mean another woman.” The smile on his face was absolutely depraved. _What a despicable, arrogant and awful man,_ she thought, scandalised. 

“I think that little servant of yours would do quite well, what was her name again?” Daemon knew the name very well. 

“You stay away from Dallyria,” Rhea warned. “You’ve known her since she was a child, how can you think of her in this crude manner,” she then asked, too incredulous to even fathom how her husband could lust for a girl who was barely of child-bearing age. 

“She is not a child any longer, that is plain to see,” Daemon said, running his tongue over his bottom lip. 

“Not her. I am sure there are other, more suitable ones scurrying around,” she relented, allowing Daemon his fancies, for the pride of her family.

“They would gossip, most like. Not that it would bother me, but your entire household knowing that you are the female version of a cuckold, would be a little bit embarrassing, would it not, wife? Oh, what will father dearest say?” he asked, pretending to be scandalised in the latter statements. _He takes joy in this, in hurting and scorning me._

“Besides,” Daemon began, “Her loyalty belongs to you, if My Lady tells her not to speak a word of it, then surely she will not. I shall throw in some complimentary gifts as well, for her arduous efforts,” he finished with a wicked smile. 

“She is not one of your whores!” Lady Royce snapped but Daemon simply rose an eyebrow.

“No, she is not. I treat her better than those, already.” He leaned closer to Rhea, as if he was sharing a secret that was only between them. “Everyone is a whore for the right price, Rhea. It is time you learned.” His words were mere wicked whispers and the smile was full of sin. 

Rhea relented, calling upon the girl. _Forgive me, my child. Forgive me for not protecting you from him but my family’s honor seems greater than the spoiling of a bastard girl. You would not have had a prosperous, high-matched marriage anyway. Better lose your maidenhead to a prince, no matter how cruel he is. That is how things are done in our world but believe me when I tell you; that I wish it could be different. Believe me._ Sadly, it was not. 

The moments ticked on, with Rhea’s hair on the back of her neck, standing straight up. The girl appeared quite quickly though, knocking timidly on the door. Rhea opened it and tried to smile, but it only came out as a grimace. 

“You had need of me m’lady?” The girl asked warily, her brown eyes gazing into the empty parts of Rhea’s soul. 

“Yes, enter please,” she replied, widening the door for Dallyria to enter, that is when Daemon entered the view. 

“M’prince,” the girl stammered, turning redder by the second and attempting to curtsy before Daemon told her that it was not needed. 

“You’ve grown,” he told her elegantly. “How many years have you seen now? Pray tell,” Daemon asked her with enchanting, vivid eyes of purple. 

“Six-and-ten, m’prince.” 

“A newly made woman, then, i’d wager.” The girl looked confused. 

“Pardon me, m’prince, but I do not take your meaning,” Dallyria said with a frown. Daemon laughed and the room filled with the mirth of it, yet Rhea felt only unease.

“You must surely have been bedded by now,” Daemon told the girl, good-naturedly but she stood fumbling and awkward instead of replying. The Lady Royce had many a times wondered, if Daemon’s smile could turn more corrupt and sinful than it already was. This was her answer. 

“Or perhaps not,” Daemon allowed wickedly. 

“Enough, Daemon,” Rhea chided and the prince pouted.

“I was having such fun, must you always spoil it?” 

“Come here,” Daemon beckoned Dallyria forward and she exchanged an unsure glance with Lady Royce, Rhea nodded. She walked forward, until she was standing in front of the chair where the prince was lounging. He patted his lap for her to sit down and she did. 

“Now the bron-I mean Lady Rhea, shall do the honors of explaining why we have summoned you here, my pet,” Daemon told the girl as he toyed with her hair and stroked her thigh with his free hand. Rhea sighed, fully aware of the nickname that her husband had given her. Hate seeped out of the Royce lady’s very pores. 

“I-” Rhea began but found that she had no words to say it. _How does one ask… or order this of her?_

“What my wife is trying to say, is that we need an heir,” Daemon told Dallyria, brushing his lips against her ear. The girl looked strained and uncomfortable but nodded.

“I bid you good luck in trying but what is my part in this?” she asked with such innocence that it tore at Rhea, how young she sounded. 

“Tsk, tsk, we are getting there. Let us not be impatient,” he scolded with a smile. It was such a depraved sight that met Rhea’s eyes. _How could I be foolish enough to allow it? To have father persuade me? It is one thing to know he does this with whores but I brought an innocent girl into this._

“Yet I do not like my wife, any more than she cares for me. You see, My Lady wife does not inspire any ounce of desire in my veins, so that is a bit of a mishap when it comes to making heirs. You do know how those are made?” the prince asked and the girl scoffed.

“I may not have been bedded but I am neither deaf nor blind. I have visited my father in Dorne, they are not very averse to bastards there and their culture is very different to Westeros.” 

“Dorne is an interesting place, yes,” Daemon smiled, looking proud over Dallyria’s fiery response. 

“Therefore, I need someone to help me along the way. Someone who does inspire desire,” he mumbled with his lips dangerously close to the girl’s neck. 

“How long must I stay?” Rhea asked with disdain lacing her voice. 

“You stay,” Daemon told her. “You watch.” _No, he cannot be for true? I expected the girl to help him on his way, whilst I stay in the adjacent chamber._ Lady Royce thought that Daemon would simply call for her, when he was ready but now that she thought about it, such was not her husband’s nature at all. _He will do anything to make me feel a sliver of the anger that he felt, being forced to wed me. For that, I will never have his forgiveness. Daemon Targaryens does not do kindnesses._

The girl turned her head toward Rhea with glassy, brown eyes that should not have been brimming with tears. One or two slid down her flushed cheeks.

“I do not want to hurt you, My Lady,” she said, her voice wavering as Daemon was continuing to stroke her thighs, his hands hiking up her plain, woolen gown into a place where no man had gone before. Of course that only served to fuel his ministrations further. Her husband never once broke his eye-contact with Lady Rhea, nor did he wipe that awful smirk off of his face. _This was done purely to spite me and his smile is all I need for proof._

“Do not let her tears fool you, Rhea. It is the tongue that breathes life into sweetly told lies. Bodies tell a different tale.” To prove his point, he did something to the girl and it caused her to close her eyes and bite her lip-- to the point of drawing blood. 

“This is enough, I am sure you are aroused enough, Daemon,” Rhea spoke, not being able to watch it any longer. _She poured my tea and would listen to me when I droned on about incessant things of little importance. Dallyria served me before she flowered and I cannot bear to watch her like this, seduced in the arms of my gods-awful husband._

“I think I should like to play a little longer. We have all night, after all.”

“This was not our agreement,” Rhea replied stonily and Daemon laughed,

“Fuck the agreement. I will still put my cock in you, however much I dislike that outcome, of what would have been a pleasant evening-- so technically, there is no breach in our agreement. It is not my fault that you were foolish enough to allow ways around it.” He sounded so pompous that her freckled hand itched to slap him. 

Then her husband turned Dallyria around, so that she was straddling him and began removing her dress and his shirt. Rhea hated to admit it but she understood now, why her husband chose the bastard girl, why he would harden with her in his lap, instead of his bronze bitch’s. _A pretty, bastard girl with a good body. Those are found everywhere._ When her husband began kissing the young woman so depravedly that Dallyria looked overwhelmed by the contact-- Rhea decided that she would need wine to get through this eve. 

She walked to the pitcher of wine that stood atop the table, poured herself a goblet and drank deeply, the sounds of a bastard and a prince in their pleasure, still clouding her ears and making the freckled skin covering her, crawl with invisible maggots. 

As Rhea Royce analyzed the scene of how her husband engaged with his new toy for the eve, she realised that an unwanted bitterness bruised her heart and crawled into her mind. He had never acted this way with her. The scene in front of her was so passionate, so fervent and wild-- Rhea had never seen anything like it. One could scarcely see where the bastard girl ended and Daemon began, such was their closeness-- a mess of tangled limbs and bodies engaging in their night of carnal lusts. _I will never experience that_ and the thought filled her with both a sadness and bitterness. 

With his lips still on the bastard, Daemon stood up and walked over to Rhea’s bed.

“No,” the Royce Lady shrieked but it made no difference, her husband pretended he did not hear her. _I saw his smug smile against Dallyria’s lips._ It felt wrong, _she is barely more than a girl, what is wrong with you?_ Lady Royce wondered what had been so very wrong with her, for Daemon to hate her in such a fierce manner. He changed completely with the young servant, there was no hatred or contempt in his actions; they were almost religious in their worship of the bastard girl. _She cannot be any comelier than I,_ Rhea found herself thinking. _We are both quite ordinary girls, how come he prefers one over the other? My blood is ancient and proud, the same as his. Whilst this one’s has been defiled and mixed, reducing her to little more than a mongrel, in the eyes of many._

A surprised squeal brought Lady Royce back to the scene in front of her, the goblet of wine was still in her hand but remained empty. Daemon had begun bedding the bastard, who was breathing heavily as he grunted but it did not sound as if she was enjoying it, to the degree that the prince was. 

“You are alright,” her husband told the girl gently, almost groaning the words. “I promise it will feel better soon.” Rhea could not see where his other hand was, only that he was engaging in something unknown to her. Soon enough, the girl started joining her husband in his throes of lustful bliss. It was passionate and rough but so gentle that it made Rhea’s eyes sting and her throat tighten with the acidic sobs of bitterness. How she wished that she could have married anyone, but that entitled Targaryen prince who fucked other women in front of his wife, before he would fuck her. _Damn him,_ she thought fervently. _Damn him all the way to the seven hells, they are like to have a spot reserved for him there, already._

Daemon seemed near his pleasure when Rhea noticed that he had no intention of stopping. 

“Daemon,” she called and he only groaned into the girl’s neck in response. She called his name again, louder. 

“Be quiet, you unrelenting bitch,” Daemon groaned before putting his lips on the bastard, once again. The noises they were making were simply crude and lewd. The way the girl wrapped her legs around the prince’s waist was incredibly obscene but also so intimate that Lady Royce could do nothing but look away and pour herself more wine. After too long, Daemon spilled his seed inside of the girl and collapsed on top of her, smelling of sin and damp with sweat. The girl had fared no better, her pleasure was received before the prince had his and she laid almost limp beneath him, breathing heavily with her dark eyes in a daze. 

“You made me break my promise,” Daemon smiled as he told the girl, in a not-so-quiet whisper. “You look as pure as the maiden but are you not the most wicked little thing?” Dallyria simply stared at him as if he was not of the earth before kissing him wildly. Daemon laughed against her lips and Rhea was left with such rage that she thought she might stab her husband to death with his own sword. _He corrupted my most promising servant-- was it not enough that he has every woman and child’s eyes in our household, upon him? He had to claim the one person who I believed was not under his spell of arrogance and entitlement._ Though, the thought did strike Rhea that this was as much her doing, as it was Daemon’s. _I gave him my permission, I allowed it to happen-- watched it happen._

“Do not worry, Rhea. Daemon Targaryen is a man of his word, simply give me half an hour.” Daemon sounded bored and as if he wished her to leave, whilst he recovered and no doubt, took further liberties with Dallyria Sand. _What is a bastard’s virtue worth, anyway? She did this of her own accord._ Lady Royce would be lying if she said that she had not wished for the girl to decline, _it would have made me sure of her true and utter allegiance to me, a woman that not even Daemon Targaryen, with his beautiful face and sinful body could sway. Alas, no._ It was a beautiful dream but that is not how reality works. Humans are to the core; flawed and selfish creatures, that is what makes them so great but also; so very terrible. 

Rhea returned when she had composed herself and deemed that her husband should be ready enough to put a babe in her belly. She was greeted with yet another immoral act of her husband’s, _but who kept count of them anyway? There are too many, I would not even know where to start._ Daemon had his head beneath the girl’s thighs, kissing her and making japes as the bastard ran her slim fingers through his damp hair of silver and gold. _Her giggles sound as sweet as summer,_ Rhea thought in dismay. 

“It is time for your end of the bargain,” Rhea told him with cold, green eyes where a storm was brewing. Daemon sighed.

“Our fun has to be cut short, it seems. Duty calls and she is the coldest bitch of bronze.” Dallyria did not laugh but simply gazed at Rhea, a guilty frown clouding her features; as if the extent of her actions did not seem real to her, until the very moment she was facing the one they had scorned. 

“Turn around,” Daemon told Rhea and she got on her knees, as she always had, during the first and second year of their marriage-- when Daemon had still been trying to beget an heir upon her, to no avail. _One day he decided it was not worth it and my body agreed as well, thinking it the cleverest notion to have crossed the idiotic prince, ever since he came to the Vale._

“Leave,” Rhea told the girl, not wanting anyone to bear witness to such a humiliation. For all of their marriage, Daemon had denied her the right to be taken as a woman by her husband. Somehow it still hurt the Lady of Royce that he had taken the bastard in the way he should’ve taken her from the start. _Would our marriage not have been happier for it? If he had?_

“No,” Daemon said. “This will only take a few minutes and I am far from done with her.” Dallyria had the audacity to blush a crimson at his words. Then the pain came and the chafing with it-- the utter feeling that she was going to burst. Her husband was almost manic in his actions, pushing so hard and vigorously that it could only have been fuelled by his hatred for the woman he called his wife. 

Before long, she felt the somewhat familiar feeling of his release inside her. It never ceased to disgust her, or make Rhea aware of how much she despised him. _Would I be able to love his children? They would be mine, but each time I should gaze upon them, I would realize that they’d also be his_ . A sudden fury took hold of her as she moved to redon her nightgown. _Was that good enough for you, father? Is my dignity enough to pay for the life of a child that may or may not be a dragonrider?_ She doubted that Daemon would even bestow an egg upon their children. _He would most like think them unworthy of it. Especially if they resembled me, instead of him._

“A word of this and I will have your head,” Rhea told the girl but not truly meaning the words. _I would not have the strength to order such a thing, nor the cruelty. I am not Daemon._ She remembered how Dallyria was only six-and-ten, by a moon or so. _I gave her a bracelet for her nameday, it was not so long ago._ That was when Lady Royce noted that the girl was still donning the bracelet, tightly clasped around her right wrist. _I should not blame her. It would be wrong of me._

Rhea’s belly never quickened with a child and soon enough, Daemon stopped bedding her altogether, claiming that she was barren as a desert. He even asked for an annulment by his brother, who came to wear the crown but was ultimately denied. Thankfully, Daemon left the Vale for King’s Landing, Dragonstone and his whores, so she barely had to endure his presence. Their marriage would come to last until Rhea’s death, eight-and-ten years after their wedding. Some would say their marriage only lasted a day or the first year. To both Rhea and Daemon, it was as if it never was. A mere ceremony forced upon two people does not make a marriage. Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys should have known.

The bastard girl by the name of Dallyria Sand moved back to Dorne, shortly after the entire ordeal. Rhea heard nothing of her after that, but rumors swarmed the household. Some said she grew great with child, that she wed a fifth son of her Dayne uncle’s. Lady Royce never bothered to search to see if the rumors had any merit to them. 

The truth was not unlike those rumors, though embellishment does quite a lot for a story, many would agree. Dallyria did wed her uncle’s fifth son but she did not leave the Vale willingly. She was cast out by her grandmother, for becoming pregnant with a babe. No one can prove that the babe was Daemon’s but it was a girl, with hair as dark as night and haunting, purple eyes. The wedding occurred so quickly after that all suspected that she was simply a very fertile woman and that the babe was born a little early but surprisingly healthy, nonetheless. 

Rhea had made her peace with the young woman. One night, not long after the entire ordeal; Dallyria had begged leave to speak with Lady Royce, after having brought her a tray of fruit-tea. The girl said that she was so sorry, that it was not supposed to be like that but Daemon was a convincing man and oh, so beautiful and talented. Rhea was not surprised to learn that her husband continued to bed the girl until her sudden departure. Forgiveness is a virtue and Lady Royce gave it to Dallyria, freely. The blame never laid with the girl. That was what she was, a young girl, seduced by a man who should have known better. 

Alas, it does no one any sliver of good, to fret on such matters. It seemed strange to Rhea, however, that Daemon had behaved even more petulantly and moody since the girl disappeared… perhaps he cared for her, or Dallyria never told him that she was leaving. We will simply never know. The prince would surely lie, as he was wont to, if ever questioned about the ordeal. With a man such as Daemon, there is no truth. Only knowledge and what you choose to do with it-- and power will always be power. Daemon knew, do you?

One thing was always clear to Westeros, though. Daemon despised his lady-wife and she, him. 


	29. It would always come to this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daemon kept Nettles by his side, day and night, in sky and castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo i'm back and for once, I actually feel kinda proud over what I wrote. I hope you like it. 
> 
> Since y'all did express your distaste toward Daemon in his younger years, I thought I may give you a snippet of what he may have been like in his older years, shortly before his death. Simply because it was a request andddd for you to acquire some mixed emotions regarding this charming prince. 
> 
> Also this is an apt moment to leak that I do not believe Nettles was the daughter of Daemon because... I mean it'd still be weird that he canonically bathed with her, etc when she was 17 and he was past 40. All we have is the maester's (biased) POV and then Mysaria's statement, which I think was true because why else would she be mad and seize the opportunity with Rhaenyra, knowing she'd get revenge, if her loyalty was with Daemon? There's a lot behind why I don't think she's his bastard, but alas i'm too lazy to write it out. 
> 
> Also Nettles may very well have been the bastard of a bastard, she'd still have Targ blood, even if it wasn't as concentrated as it would be with a fully Targ parent. She also groomed Sheepstealer, never did she attempt to ride him immediately. 
> 
> So if you do believe she is the daughter of Daemon and don't like the love/affection/fondness trope of it all, you're free to read another chapter or click away from this story lol.
> 
> Really intrigued toward what y'all think of this chapter so don't be shy to drop a comment down below, when you're finished. 
> 
> Daemon Targaryen, a rogue if there ever was one.
> 
> Please leave a kudos if you enjoyed the story and comment down below if you have any requests or thoughts on the story, on anything!
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: This series will most likely have to be put on the ice for a while. I've started a new story (AU about after Robert's Rebellion) So you might not see a chapter for some time. Feel free to check the other story out, thought. <3

 

 

 

Weary was one way to describe Daemon. He had spent his entire life fighting for one thing or the other. For his brother’s ascension that would make him the second in line to the throne. For the crown, in the wars of the Stepstones, for Rhaenyra’s crown-- her right to be queen. Not because he thought she particularly deserved it; but rather to spite the bitch in green and to put a purebred Targaryen with their heirs atop the iron throne, _instead of those Hightower mongrels._

He was old now. Daemon might not have looked it; with his face still remaining as comely as it was fifteen years past and his body still as strong and lithe. This was not an old that could be seen but rather he felt it, deep within his bones. It was tiring, to lose this much. First Viserys and now his daughters were in danger. Aegon was in jeopardy, as well, though still relatively safe, in the arms of Rhaenyra. _They’ll be well protected. Rhaena is in the Vale and Baela, at Dragonstone._ yet the thought did not bring him as much comfort as he would have liked. 

 _I loved her, once. When she was a beautiful young girl, with so much promise that her spirit glowed with it. I was fond of her when we wed, but it was not out of pure intentions, I admit._ Laena was the one his heart would always belong to, the one who claimed it all and taught him how there was more to affection than fucking and engaging in the carnal aspects of it. His wife was dead though and the memory of her still left his heart uneasy, with sorrow. 

“Why the frown, m’prince?” Nettles asked, stroking his cheek, in the light of the luminescent moon. The night was quiet and cool but Daemon remained warm. There was fire in his veins-- magic. His lips quirked upward, in what looked like a smile. Not a smirk nor a cruel, mocking leer. It was a smile and true. One he reserved only for her and his children. 

“I am tired,” he replied and the girl looked confuzzled.

“Then sleep, m’prince.” _I wish it was so easy, my love--for all problems to wash away, as dawn bleeds into the horizon._

“Not that sort of tired,” Daemon allowed and felt her long, slender hand brush against naked skin, making the prince close his eyes and allow himself that one moment of fleeting bliss. 

“What other kind is there?” This girl knew not matters of the mind or soul, for when you live each day wondering where your next meal may be retrieved from or how long you can labor until you fall into a heap; matters of the heart seem of very little concern.

“The one who never truly leaves. Only death will free me from the shackles of this curse, I fear. Mayhaps I willed it so, myself. I have not been the godliest of men. Perhaps this is their way of returning my many slights.” 

 Netty grabbed his chin and made him look deep into her eyes, his lilac meeting her brown ones that contained swirls of pure amethyst. 

“Fuck the gods. When are they ever where they’re needed? They only come as they please and demand our undying fidelity in return. You have a good heart, Daemon. You showed me kindness and what it means ter’ love,” her words sounded coarse but they made him smile, nonetheless. The prince had been teaching her common courtesy and instructed her in the art of speaking eloquently. Nettles was a fast learner and her statements bore fruit of his hard labors. 

“Well spoken, yet some would say I have no heart,” he smiled and she scoffed but the eyes remained soft, as soft as a poor bastard girl’s eyes could be, after a life of so much labor and suffering. 

“I have seen it.” Daemon’s pale hand toyed with her head of black curls and she sighed. “Count yourself lucky. Not many have,” he allowed softly and she nodded. It was always easier to speak of these things during the quiet night. It was as if the only time his heart truly opened, was during those silent eves, with the moon high in the sky and the owls hooting comfortingly, in their nests.

“I am grateful. Sleep,” she mumbled, tiredly and Daemon did as he was bid, for once. He dragged the small, bastard girl to his chest, breathing in deeply on the top of her head and fell into a dreamless sleep, forgetting all about his duties and obligations for those fitful moments.  

The next morning was the same as all those others they had spent in Lord Mooton’s hospitality. It began with his Netty, waking him up with soft kisses, trailing up his chest and arms but settling in the crook of his neck. Daemon groaned at the pleasant, tickling feel and the hot breath and soft lips, gently nibbling at the fragile skin that covered his throat. 

“Netty,” he smiled in greeting and stroked the small of her back with his hands. A roguish smile covered the bastard’s lips and she kissed his cheek, nose and moved down to capture his lips with her own. It was furiously enticing, the way she moved her lips with passion and gasped as if the air was not enough. It reminded him of another bastard, long ago. _It seems I have a preference for them_ , he thought with a rueful smile.

 _Though my Netty looks like her, not. Her hair is black and the eyes are a murky brown with shards of amethyst, instead of a rich brown. The two are similar in their short stature, but the Dornish bastard had boasted more meat on her bones, whereas Netty was as skinny as a twig when I first met her._ The Dragonseed had a ravenous appetite though, fitting for one of the dragon’s blood and had garnered a more ample bosom and wider hips, during the time she had known Daemon. The prince was not complaining, by any means. Age had not made his carnal lusts wither and for that, he was grateful. 

Yet… Nettles’s body and face had not been what drew the prince to her or what made him grow so fond of her. Much like the Dornish bastard who’d receded in his memory, there was nothing in particular that set Nettles apart from her fellow humans. _Except her eyes, those bear proof of the magic in her veins, the fire in her blood. The same as mine._ However, her nose was not the aquiline of the Valyrians, or the straight, delicate one that many Targaryens boasted. It was narrow, albeit a little crooked and had a slit in it-- _perhaps the price she had to pay for thievery._ The lips were fuller than his and her chin a little too strong, along with the forehead. Her smile was a little crooked, but blinding, nonetheless.

Daemon found that he did not really care, those imperfections made her even more beautiful, it proved that she was real and human. Something the incessantly cool and regal facade of Rhaenyra’s, lacked. Laena was one of the most beautiful women of her time, yet she remained humble, kind and graceful-- showing him her fears and tears. She shared the misery and pain-- something his third wife, never learned how to. _I should not be hypocritical, after all, it was I, who told Rhaenyra that the dragon does not weep._

Some could argue that Rhea Royce, his first wife, was more comely than Nettles. _Perhaps she was but not in spirit. The bronze bitch was as dull as a chaste whore and I hate gingers,_ Daemon thought coldly. He had never wished to wed Lady Rhea and the resentment of being forced to do so, had always found its way to the surface, whenever he found himself in her company. _The bitch is long dead now, there is no point in dwelling on her._

“You slept long,” she teased and Daemon laughed. 

“I am an old man, I need my rest.” The girl pouted and shook her head.

“Yer’ not old, m’prince.” She said and ran her finger along the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen, as if that was all she needed for proof. Daemon took hold of her dainty hand and put it against his beating heart.

“This is,” he said, with lilac eyes as clear as the morning mist. 

A sadness touched her eyes, one Nettles refused to express. 

“It will have to keep on beating. For me, for you and your children.” There was no mention of Rhaenyra or the Seven Kingdoms. 

“I shall do my best,” he smiled but it did not quite reach his eyes. 

“You better. Or if there are those Seven Hells, then i’ll haunt you throughout all o’em.” 

“I would not be opposed toward that prospect,” Daemon smiled and stroked her thigh.

“Yer’ a dirty man, m’prince,” Netty scolded but her eyes were full of mirth. 

“And is that not why you love me?” he asked with a tenderness.

“One o’em reasons.” The prince who was now a king-consort, but did not feel like such, moved to kiss his young paramour, but she withdrew at the last second. 

“We have a long day ahead, searching for that one-eyed bastard. Let us break fast and be on our way, the sooner we’ll be back.” Daemon groaned but nodded, nonetheless. 

His bastard of a nephew had claimed Laena’s dragon, after her death. The mighty Vhagar, a beast that had been ridden by the warrior queen of old and the original bearer of Daemon’s sword, Darksister. That only made him the more inclined to kill that Hightower cunt. _He dare ride Laena’s dragon, to besmirch and befoul Vhagar by his half-blooded presence on her. The little mongrel will soon face justice._ Daemon always dreamed of plunging his sword into the sapphire eye of Aemond’s, having the tip reemerge from the cunt’s throat, dripping and glistening with scarlet. _Something i’d gladly give my life for._

They broke their fast with some boiled eggs, fried bread and ale, to wash it all down. Daemon was not particularly famished, so he contented himself with the cup of ale and a few pieces of bread. Instead, he watched the skinny, brown girl eat with a hearty appetite. The sight put a smile on his face and lightened his heart. _Never did I ever see Rhaenyra eat like that, even Laena was too well-bred for it._ His feelings for the bastard girl were complex and very inconvenient in such a time of war. 

He was so very fond of her, more than he was of Rhaenyra when they wed, but not more than he was of Laena, before they wed. It was not the same sort of affection that he had shared with his second wife. The love with his Lady Laena was sweet, passionate and beautiful-- something he never thought he should ever experience. Nettles… _Where does my Netty stand in all of this?_ He was passionate about the girl and her wild, untamed spirit, how she was rough around the edges, rather than polished. Yet the bastard girl was young, a little older than the Dornishwoman had been, all those years ago. _Dallyria must be three-and-forty by now and Netty is not even twenty._

The girl was older than her years, though, that was plain for the eye to see. _They do say the bastards have to grow up before they are truly grown, for the world spares them no sympathy. It is not Nettles’s fault that she was a bastard._ Sometimes the prince found himself wondering why the world was so harsh to these children who had done no wrong. _They must suffer, so that the few like me, can thrive,_ he thought grimly. It was the way of their world and there was no point in trying to change it. Daemon was aware that for a select few people to be on top, many more needed to be on the bottom.

“What?” Nettles asked, suddenly worried that maybe her poor table manners had left spillage on her nightgown. She never cared much what others thought of her, but Daemon was different. Her only wish was to please him, to make him proud and for him to love her. Oh, to be loved by a man who was half a god. 

“Nothing,” Daemon replied with a peculiar look in his eyes. Then he leaned forward and stroked her cheek tenderly. Nettles leaned into his touch as if she was a cat that was starved for any sort of affection. She felt a kiss to her forehead and was then told to rise. 

“Let us get on with this,” he said, wearily. 

***

Daemon was in a foul mood when they returned. This was the the dance they had been dancing for days and weeks, now. They flew, searching for the large beast that was Vhagar but they never spotted her. They flew and flew, in ever-widening circles that bore no fruit. _How long must this go on?_ He thought angrily. Daemon wanted to kill the little shit already, his heart was black with hatred for all those Hightower spawns. _They are no true Targaryens,_ he scoffed. 

 _Viserys… how foolish could you have been? You brought this upon all of us when you did not recognise Rhaenyra as heir for the second time. When you married that skinny, Hightower bitch of an upstart and named her father your hand._ Daemon knew that he had a lot of blood on his hands but he did not cause this. _I should’ve had the babes smothered in their cribs when I had the chance,_ he thought bitterly. Say what you will about Daemon in his younger days but the man loved Viserys too much to have his brother’s children slain as babes. 

“Is the tub readied?” Prince Daemon snapped at one of the servants, who looked ready to piss his breeches in the sight of his prince’s fury. 

“Yes m-m-m’prince,” the poor man stuttered and Daemon dismissed him, a look of disgust on his face. Then he entered their chambers and found the tub with steam rising from the hot water. _Good,_ Daemon smiled. The prince liked his baths scalding, as most of his kin, and his Netty did, as well. 

“Don’t be a fucking cunt,” Nettles snapped at the older man and Daemon turned to her, his eyes softened as he took her annoyed expression into account. 

“Fine,” he sighed and watched the bastard’s lips tilt upward. Then she removed her riding leathers slowly and Daemon raised an eyebrow as he stepped into the waters, groaning as it undid all the knots in his back and neck. _Age has cursed me, it seems._

“Must you be such a little tease?” he asked and she laughed, throwing her head back in utter mirth. Then she joined him in the bath, as well-- Daemon embraced her and pulled her small body toward his. It felt good to have someone to hold, to love at night and bring comfort to. Daemon was a lonely man, after Laena died. No amount of whores or wine could change that truth. Nettles brought out something within him, a flicker of lust for life, a thought that he could be good. 

Sighing, he grabbed hold of a vial with soap and poured it into the bastard girl’s untamed, black curls and began massaging gently. Nettles lips quirked up in a smile and she relaxed against his body. 

“Who was you father?” Daemon found himself asking, suddenly. Her eyes remained closed but her lips pursed as she thought. 

“Me ma’  had told me auntie that it was some bastard with silver hair and purple eyes. That was before she left me fer the streets, to fend for meself.” Daemon frowned. 

“That is all you know?” 

“Me mother died before I could ask any questions.” 

“Would you not wish to have known him?” The prince thought back to his own father and could not imagine a life without Prince Baelon having been a part of it. 

“All he did was stick his cock up me ma’s cunt. Fuck him, fuck all o’em-- they never did nothin’ fer me.” Her voice was angry, enraged almost. 

“He gave you the power to ride a dragon,” Daemon allowed, quietly. The anger washed away from Nettles, like the tide. 

“Yes, he did.” Then Daemon poured some water above her head, without warning and the girl shrieked.

“Fuck you, Daemon!” she yelled but her voice soon turned to giggles, the prince laughed, as well.

“My fucking turn,” she grumbled and grabbed the vial from his large hands. Delicately, she poured some into her hands and began to lightly rub it into his hair that looked like molten silver, drenched in water, as it was. Daemon closed his eyes and allowed her to continue her ministrations. 

Suddenly, the girl paused and Daemon asked her why she stopped. 

“You’re beautiful.” Nettles was almost in awe of his beauty for it was unlike anything she had ever seen. He was truly a god and she was grateful to have him… even just for these moments. The prince would never be hers, he did not belong to her and she knew. But she would be lying if she said it did not hurt, for it did. The truth was that she was not fighting for Rhaenyra, her sons or the blacks. She was fighting for Daemon, that was where her allegiances rested. Not with any of the other rich men and women that she did not know or even cared to. 

“Most purebred Targaryens are,” Daemon allowed with a smirk. _Humbleness was never my forté, was it?_ His Netty did not contradict it, but simply placed a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

“I wish I would have been one,” she said with a sad yearning. “Then we could have wed.” 

“It would never have been so easy, Netty.” She poured the water down his face, washing his hair clean from the dragonstink. 

“Alas. But it’s a lovely dream, no?” Alas had become her favorite word, of those he had taught her.

“Yes. It is.” 

Then he soaped her back and she, his. Daemon withdrew from the tub, first, when the water turned lukewarm. Quickly, he dried himself with a woolen towel and donned the linen breeches that he would retire to bed with. 

“Come here,” he beckoned the young girl and she rose, droplets of water dripping down her brown skin. 

Nettles allowed the big towel to embrace her and rejoiced in the way that Daemon lightly dried her. His hands on her body brought a comfort, that was seldom felt. As a bastard, one never truly feels safe enough to let their guard down and leave themselves vulnerable. With Daemon, Nettles did. She never put much stock in the gods, but thanked them, nonetheless, for allowing her to know him, no matter how horrid the circumstances. 

***

The days passed, the same as they always did. They would wake, break their fast and spend the days scouring the Riverlands, for any sign of Vhagar. They were given none. When they returned, Daemon would be in a somewhat foul mood and Nettles would snap at him for treating the servants cruelly, then they would bathe and she would put a smile on his lips, once again. If they were tired, they would retire to bed immediately and if they were not… then they would sit up talking, playing cyvasse or the Nettles girl would ride him the way she did Sheepstealer. 

Sometimes Daemon would recount stories from his glory days, when he had been younger, swifter, deadly and even more beautiful. He would tell her of his first marriage and the second one. Nettles never grew jealous of the way he spoke of Laena. The Velaryon lady had seemed a force to be reckoned with and Netty wished that she would have been able to know her. Daemon told the bastard girl that she had the same adventurous and fearless spirit as Laena, so they would most like have gotten along splendidly. 

This eve, they were speaking to each other softly and were sharing a simple meal of boiled beef with each other. Daemon was weary and Nettles, as well. Each day seemed wasted, for Vhagar and his cunt of a nephew refused to appear. 

“What happens now?” Nettles asked, quietly. 

“What do you mean?” Daemon countered and moved to stroke her cheek, for she looked so hopeless and lost. 

“When we find Vhagar. Will we die trying to kill them? What happens if we live? To me, to you?” _I have no answers for her. No sweet ones that would calm her heart, yet neither would she want them. Netty is not a highborn lady who was raised with songs, so it spares me the effort of telling her, that this is not like the ballads._

“I do not know, my pet. I will do my best to have you rewarded. You could be made a lady, with a keep of your own. Perhaps Rhaenyra could arrange a relatively high-matched marriage for you.” Tears began swimming in Nettles’s eyes. _Do not weep, please._

“I want to stay with you, not marry some cunt of a lordling with a stick up his arse.” She spoke the words softly but there was a strength to them, a pain, as if this was all she ever wanted. _You are young, still. The tears will recede and so will the pain, I promise._

“That is my wish, as well, but we cannot always get what we want, can we? I will try, believe me. However, we must hope for the best but expect the worst. Are you hearing me, Netty?” Daemon would give her or entertain false hope, it was not in his nature, not any longer.

“I love you,” she said, so quietly that he almost did not hear. 

“You are young. You will love another.” She shook her head but Daemon kissed her and silenced the impending tears. _I do not have the strength to wipe them away._  

“I-” he began after he moved to sit down and resume his meal, but a knock on the door interrupted him. 

“Enter,” Daemon bid the visitor and it turned out to be the young maester. _Norren, is his name, I recall._ The maester was a young man of two-and-twenty, with brown hair and kind, blue eyes. _The ones my grandmother always donned, even when I had committed some act of depraved mischief._ It seemed like a bit of a waste to Daemon, that the man was quite comely but had resigned himself to a life of celibacy and serving others. _We all have our reasons, I suppose_ , the prince thought. 

“My Prince,” the maester began, almost unsure what to make of Daemon. _._

“Maester Norren. Good eve, how fare you?” Daemon asked, politely. The maester seemed nervous and a bit saddened. 

“I could have been better,” he smiled, without it reaching his kind, blue eyes. 

“A letter arrived, My king. From the Queen.” Daemon took hold of the letter and read it with keen, lilac eyes and felt his heart sink into his gut. _No. Gods, please, no._ The letter was from Rhaenyra, calling Nettles a traitor, demanding her head and for him to return to the capital, for there was urgent need of him there. If there was ever a way for Prince Daemon to go, then it would be in a fight. _Over my dead body, shall they have her head._  

“What’s in it?” Nettles asked, for she could not yet read. _I taught her the letters, she would have been able to, in a few moons_ , Daemon thought, sadly. 

“A Queen’s words. A whore’s work,” Daemon spit and unsheathed Darksister from its scabbard. The maester looked in awe of the sword, but terrified of the situation at hand.

“Are Lord Mooton’s men waiting outside, to take us captive?” Daemon asked but the maester shook his head fervently and muttered pleas for the gods to forgive him. 

“I came alone,” The man declared, his blue eyes shining bright. “Forgive me, My Prince. I am sworn to serve whatever allegiance that belongs to My Lord but I cannot allow this gruesome breaking of guest right. She is barely a woman-- A child who has scarcely lived! I will not stand by and allow it to happen.” Daemon eyed the man warily, with pale eyes, as if searching for the slightest hint of falsehood. 

“No one knows of the contents of the letter, but you and I. Forgive me, My Prince, I have broken my maester's vows.” A look of utter relief seemed to cloud Daemon’s features. _Thank the gods,_ he breathed, so quietly that no one but the wretched deities heard. Sheathing his sword, he helped the maester get up, from the previous position, pleading on his knees.

“You are a bad maester,” Daemon allowed, “But a good man,” he finished. Still, those words seemed to do nothing to relieve the tension, in the young maester’s face. 

“Please leave, Maester Norren. I have matters to settle.” The young man seemed eager to depart, but Daemon touched his shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. 

“Speak no word of this to lord nor love until the morrow,” The prince commanded and the maester nodded, then took his leave. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Daemon cursed, flinging a book off of the wooden table. Nettles moved to put a calming hand on his shoulder, but he removed it as if scalded. 

“This was Mysaria’s doing, I know it! That damned whore could never let me go.” Most of his affection for his old paramour, died with his child, the bastard she was carrying, all those years ago. 

“Breathe, Daemon,” Nettles said, embracing the tall prince who looked as if he had not supped on air for years. 

After a while, he calmed under the guise of the bastard girl, known as Netty, to him. She kissed his forehead and smoothed out his silver hair with her hands, the color clashing desperately, with her warm skin. 

“We will go to her. Tell her that I am not a traitor. It will be alright, m’prince,” Nettles tried to soothe her lover but he shook his head. 

“Do you not understand, Netty? She will have your head and force me to take it! Rhaenyra is past making bargains, she knows only grief and anger.”

“Then what do we do?” Nettles snapped, hopelessly. Daemon remained quiet for so long, that their meal had gone cold, yet none of them had the appetite to stomach it, at this point. All they could taste, were their impending deaths, well, Nettles’s, at least. 

“I will not return to King’s Landing,” the prince decided, his lilac eyes in a daze. 

“Then what will you do?” Silent tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“I will return to Harrenhal and await Aemond, there.” 

“How do you know he’ll even come?” Daemon smirked emptily at that,

“He will.” Those lilac eyes turned empty as they stared at his paramour. 

“You must needs leave this place, somewhere they will not find you. Deep into the wilderness.” 

“I will go with you,” Netty said, stubborn as an ox, with unyielding eyes. 

“No. I need you to live. The only scent that will follow me now, is death.” 

“You cannot leave me, Daemon,” the girl pleaded and for once, sounded her age. 

“This is my duty, which I must perform. I will kill the little bastard, once and for all. Even if it kills me. He is a large threat, which must be annihilated. This will be my final gift to Rhaenyra, my daughters and my son; life.” 

“What if you live?” Nettles asked and the prince shook his head, her naivety reminding him of his daughters, when they were young. _One will not come out unscathed, from this. It will claim my life, make no mistake._

“If I live, I will come for you, no doubt,” Nettles did not ask what happens after that, for she knew that he would not have any words to say it. This would always remain the end of them. There would be no happy ending, no songs or poems or ballads. Just death and despair. 

Daemon moved to put another log on the crackling fire, enveloping the room with a pleasant, feverish heat. He removed his silken tunic and laid down on his back, atop the furs and pelts that covered the floor. 

“Come,” he said with closed eyes and an arm opened. Nettles corrected the strap of her thin, blue shift and laid on top of him, finding comfort in the close proximity. 

“I am sorry it had to be like this,” Daemon mumbled against her thick, curly hair. 

“Aye, me too.” One could barely hear her quiet words, whispered against the crook of her prince’s neck. Pray to whatever gods you like, that you should never experience such a hopelessness enveloping a room, drowning the atmosphere with a sense of doom. This was all they had, one last night in each other’s arms. It sounds almost cruel, because it is. It is cruel. 

Suddenly, Daemon began singing-- the baritone notes washing over her, like the sweetest relief. It was not in a tongue that the bastard was familiar with but Daemon sang a song in valyrian, the language of true poets. The words were smooth like water and made an unknown sadness descend upon her. The prince sang, all the while absentmindedly tracing her back and shoulders.

When he finished, she spoke. Trying her best to sound articulate and as if this was the way she was wont to speak. 

“I am yours but you will never be mine.” 

“Here; I am,” Daemon said and she wished it would have been enough, those fleeting moments but she knew that it would never. 

Nettles began weeping, like a young girl who was to lose it all. In a way, she was. The one man who ever meant something to her, who mattered, would leave her. They refused to speak the words, for that would breathe them into existence, making them real; but Prince Daemon and his Netty would be history, after this eve. They would never meet again and the thought filled them both with a despair, a true sorrow.

“Oh, my Netty,” Daemon whispered, holding her fiercely as she stained his body with the anguish of her tears. 

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded in the midst of her weakness. 

“I am here,” he said with a kiss to the side of her head. After some time, her sobs quieted and she raised her head, to gaze at him with eyes of both purple and brown. 

She kissed him, then. Enveloping her lips with his, until there was no more air to breathe life into the hopelessness of that room. Daemon did what she wished, in hopes that it would bring her a comfort, to stay with her, when life would turn bleak. _I wish for her to grow old and damn the gods, if they do not will it so._ Nettles removed her shift with an ease and felt gooseprickles cover her skin, but the fire of the hearth warmed her and so did Daemon’s body. 

Their coupling was filled with a melancholy, a tragic passion. The way it tore at their hearts, that it would have to end like this. Daemon conveyed his love, when none of his words would be able to say it. Nettles was almost manic, wanting to know every part of him, before it would all be taken from her, right before her eyes. 

When it was all done, they laid there for so long, in front of the comforting fire, that Nettles fell asleep. It was Daemon who carried her back to the bed and wrapped her in the covers, noticing the ivory handled hairbrush he had given her, days ago, on the table near the bed. Then he laid next to here, embracing her from the side with a kiss to the side of her head.

“Nobody leaves this wretched game of thrones unscathed. Even less, leave it alive,” he whispered into the air of the night but was met with no response. 

“It seems I do love you,” he continued but the silence kept on going, comforting him, almost. 

“Let it be our secret to keep.” He hoped the gods would listen to him, for once, if they even existed.

 _If father had been alive, none of this would have happened. If Viserys or Aemma or any of all the damned others had been, then we would know naught of this wretched war._ What he left unsaid is that he would also have known naught of Nettles. _Would that have been a blessing or a curse?_ The prince did not know. Perhaps it would have been a kindness to the both of them. 

The bastard girl was unusually clingy the next morn. She woke in the early hours before dawn broke and peppered him with soft kisses. Nettles would constantly search for something of his, that she could touch. As if she was getting her fill of him, before preparing for a life without Daemon Targaryen in it. Once Prince Daemon entered one’s heart and soul, nothing would quite ever feel the same. He simply had the power to move, to shake your world from its holdings and leave you a mess, with his eventual departure. 

"It is time,” Daemon told her gently and saw tears swim in her eyes. Wordlessly, she nodded and took his hand. Together, they walked into the yard and she picked the biggest black ram in Maidenpool, to feed her Sheepstealer with, slitting its throat, herself-- staining her leathers with blood. It mattered not, her cheeks were already stained with tears. 

“You deserve it,” Nettles whispered to the skinny, brown dragon as he ate. 

No words were exchanged between prince or bastard. If Nettles spoke, she would surely weep and she wished to be strong for her prince. To make him proud of her, to see that she did not falter. Daemon had a soft look, in his lilac eyes. They looked to almost be swirling with tears, yet she could not tell. She tried to give him a smile but it did not come out as such. 

Mutely, she mounted her dragon and beckoned him to fly. Nettles did not look back, only forward. If she looked back, she would be lost. There was no time for hesitation. Daemon wished for her to live, and live, she would. It would be her gift, to him. A blood-curdling scream reached her ears, that could only be from Caraxes, as the bastard girl flew into the dawn sky and vanished between the morning mists. The sound was so anguished, that it made new tears form on her cheeks, yet the wind blew them away. As if they never were. 

***

Daemon stayed long enough to break his fast with Lord Mooton. _I need to thank him for all he did for Nettles and I._

“This is the last you will see of me,” Daemon said and there was a horrid blandness to his words. As if his own fate did not matter, any longer. 

“Where will you go?” The lord asked. 

“A burned ruin,” Daemon began, “I thank you for your hospitality. Let it be known through all your lands that I fly for Harrenhal. If my nephew Aemond dares face me, he shall find me there, alone.” Lord Mooton nodded.

“I wish you good luck, My Prince.” Daemon nodded.

“It is my nephew who will need it.” 

So it was that Daemon left Maidenpool for Harrenhal, and forfeited his life, as well. 

Death remained the only final stop of his. 

  
  
  



	30. The final act.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Baelor and Jena Dondarrion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back after the long intermission (I've been focusing on my other story called: Pray the sun will rise. It's an AU centering around Elia Martell, Rhaegar, Lyanna and the kiddos, were they to have lived.)
> 
> I was listening to the audio book of A Knight Of The Seven Kingdoms (narrated by Harry Lloyd aka Viserys boi) He has the loveliest voice. And I was just struck by how good of a fucking guy that Baelor was. Like damn his death hurt me.
> 
> And somehow that led to this. 
> 
> All I have to say is; it's not going to go the way you think. 
> 
> PS: There's probably going to be another long break after this chapter as I find it hard to focus on two different stories at the same time. 
> 
> Please leave a kudos and I'd love a comment because I haven't really done a story in this format earlier. So please leave a comment down below regarding what you thought, etc. 
> 
> Also, I am very aware of the requests y'all have and I will try to heed them and do the best I can. This was just a sudden surge of inspiration I had. 
> 
> Until next time, thanks for all your support :) 
> 
> <3

 

 

 

* * *

**I.**

The sunlight streamed in from the windows, making their closed canopy of red velvet, glow almost magically. It was spring, which meant the days were hot and the nights were only slightly cooler. However, Lady Jena adored spring and all it brought, with the prospering flowers and cooling lakes, the warmth in the air and the promise of something new and fresh. 

Their black, silken covers pooled at the bottom of their legs, kicked off somewhere in the midst of the night--because neither Jena nor her Targaryen husband could stand laying beneath them in such a heat. _The Targaryens burn hotter than regular men, it is known._ And Lady Jena was warmed enough by her husband’s large and strong body during the nights. 

She turned her head upward, to gaze at Prince Baelor, the Hand Of The King and heir to the iron throne. Her heart clenched with the love she bore for him, warm and pleasant. There were a few gray strands in his hair that bore proof of his age but otherwise he looked just as he did, ten years past. Once, Jena even jested that he was finally getting the famed silver-hair of his family. The prince had laughed and said that he was glad she enjoyed it. 

The long, dark eyelashes of his feathered out, almost touching the top of his cheeks whilst his full lips looked to almost be pouting. The aquiline nose had been broken twice but it made him look more human to her. _I always believed he was a god until it happened, for how could any man be so beautiful?_   She reached a pale hand out, to gently caress his clean-shaven cheek, that made him open his beautiful eyes of amber stone. 

“Your hands are cold,” he complained but the ghost of a smile was upon his lips. 

“You are warm, it balances out,” she replied, dragging her hand from his jaw, down his neck and onto his chest, using the tips of her nails to lightly scratch it. Hard enough to elicit sounds of pleasure but not roughly enough for it to hurt. 

Baelor groaned and stroked her back with the arm he had around her. “You’re especially quirky today.” 

“You’re leaving for Ashford later,” she frowned and he nodded. 

“Alas, yes. I must attend in the stead of my father.” 

“Was it not enough with Maekar?” Jena asked, her stormy blue eyes meeting his calm and gentle amber. 

“Unfortunately, not. Besides, Valarr will be entering the tourney, I wish to see our son fight.” 

“Matarys wishes he could travel, as well.” Baelor laughed and kissed the top of her head. 

“Our sweet boy will stay behind and keep his mother company, until I return to resume my role.” 

“That sounds like a fair bargain, husband.” 

“Let no one say that I am not a man of honor,” her Baelor smiled teasingly as he held her in his arms. 

“Can you hand me a goblet of the water, I have a thirst.” Jena nodded and sat up, her long brown hair flowing beneath her back in large curls. She reached a hand out of the canopy and leaned over to fill a goblet with the lemon-water in the pitcher, that rested atop the nightstand. 

“You will be the death of me, woman,” Baelor groaned, running his large hand down the small of her back, gently. 

“Was there ever a greater death?” she asked with a laugh. 

“I do not believe so, no.” 

With a sweet smile, Jena moved to straddle her husband’s waist and took a sip of the water herself, first, before putting it to his lips and allowing him to drink. Some of the water spilled down his muscled chest and made her giggle, the sound sweeter than summer. 

“You have the unsteadiest hands I have ever come across,” Baelor said evenly, touching the sides of her hips tenderly as he took her form in. Quickly, she leaned over to return the goblet to its rightful place, atop the table.

“Lies,” Lady Jena scoffed but her eyes were sparkling. “You should see my needlework, Septa Karyn said it was the loveliest she ever saw.” Prince Baelor snorted.

“I am sure,” he began and then bit his lip, laughter threatening to escape. “Do you recall when Septa Aurella entered our chambers by leave of the king, to fetch you for morning service and instead she found you naked in my lap? Gods I could not look her in the eyes, for moons after.” _That was ten years ago,_ Jena thought with a reminiscent smile. She had been with this man for almost two decades and thanked the gods every single day, praying for more decades to come. 

“Do you not recall how she fainted, as well? I remember you frantically asking me what we should tell the guards outside,” Jena had to steady herself by putting her hands on her husband’s chest, otherwise the laughing would make her topple over. 

“I remember not knowing what to do, lest she regained consciousness and saw me naked, as well. Imagine that; a chaste woman of fifty years waking up to seeing my arse? Might I add that she’d known me since I was a babe in arms? The prospect frightened me.” 

“It’s a good arse, though. She should have counted herself fortunate, if you ask me,” Lady Dondarrion laughed and her husband did the same. “We were so young, then,” Jena continued lazily, her eyes foggy with recollection. “Sometimes I wish we could go back to those moments. Now our sons are grown, well Valarr, at least.” 

“We could always have another,” her husband winked and she nodded, sighing. “If the gods will it so.” 

“It will surely be fun trying, do you not think, my love?” His eyes darkened and he ran his hands along her body, sending pleasurable tingles down her spine. 

Jena leaned down, whispering softly in his ear. 

“What if the world knew what a depraved man they have for a prince,” she teased.

“If they saw the vixen that I call my wife, they would surely understand,” he retorted and she could not argue. 

“Let it be our secret to keep,” she said, kissing his neck and feeling his hands tighten on her body. 

“Your wish is my command, My Queen.” Jena stopped to look at him, her hair acting like a veil between them and their surroundings. 

“I am no queen.” 

“But someday you shall be, and you will be a great one.” His eyes bore a heart-wrenching sincerity that made her cup of love overflow. 

“I will be by your side, the greatest king that ever was and ever will be.” 

“You flatter me, love.” Jena stroked his cheek and leaned down, placing a soft peck on his lips. 

“Your heart is true and brave. Kingship will become you.” 

“I love you,” he whispered, sounding so vulnerable. “I do not know what I would do, should I ever lose you.” 

“You won’t, my love.” 

“Good,” he smiled and flipped her, so that she was on her back, with Baelor’s large presence engulfing her. 

He moved down her neck, placing scorching kisses everywhere his lips touched, then he moved down her chest and stomach, caressing and nibbling on her skin. Even the parts that childbearing had marked with red and white stripes. 

“Baelor,” Jena gasped, feeling him move down her thighs. He looked at her quickly, the ghost of a smile upon his wicked lips, before resuming his ministrations. The Lady Dondarrion grasped his strands of dark hair and heard him let out a sound of pleasure as she writhed and squirmed beneath him. 

“Come here,” she begged, wanting to feel his lips on hers, his head in the crook of her neck, to hear his familiar sounds as he reached his pleasure. She needed Baelor, to be a part of her, _for him to be I, and I, him._ Dutifully, her husband placed one last kiss on the inside of her thigh and moved to her, kissing her with a fierce passion. 

“I love you,” she repeated each time she felt his hands on her skin, his lips on her own. 

“Love is the greatest glory we can ever be bestowed,” her husband mused when he joined her as one, his sweet groans enticing her even more. 

Desperate to feel more of him, she wrapped her legs around his waist, the way she knew he liked. Baelor pushed harder, his lips alternating between her neck and lips, his hands on her stomach and breasts, touching and caressing. Jena never wanted to leave. She wanted to stay in that chamber forever, feeling her husband’s love and never ever opening that canopy. A childish dream but the sincerest one that could ever be. 

She spent before her husband did but he was not far from his own, she realised, for she knew his body better than her own. The sloppier his movements became and the softer his sounds of pleasure were, the closer he was. To urge him on, she ran her nails across his back and it seemed to send him over the edge, and she felt the familiar heat between her thighs.

Baelor collapsed against her for a few moments, laying his head in the crook of her neck and breathing hard. Jena ran a hand through his slightly damp hair, whilst the other stroked his neck and shoulder. She felt whole in a way that only occurred when she was alone with him. _When he is just mine, not the king’s or the lords’ or the realm’s._ The heavy curtain of tiredness began to envelope her, until Baelor gently turned to lay on his back, taking her with him and placing her on top of him. 

Her long, brown hair flared out on his chest and she began to trace little circles with the hand that rested on his abdomen. 

“I wish you could stay,” she admitted and could almost picture his soft smile, the special one that he reserved just for her. 

“So do I, My Lady,” he replied evenly and a heaviness settled in her chest. Ashford did not feel right, it was not his place. A sort of dread had made its home in the pit of her stomach. 

“That fair maid could live without almost all of the comely princes and princelings attending,” Jena grumbled, knowing that she was behaving like a petulant child and felt his chest rumble with that musical laugh of his. 

“You find me comely?” Prince Baelor teased and she turned her head upward, to look at him with those stormy, blue eyes. 

“Is the sky blue? Must you make me say it?” His liquid pools of amber, always so tender, looked at her with adoration. 

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever come across, sweet Jena. Inside and out, there could have been no better match for me.” Tears began welling in her eyes, but Baelor shook his head and told her not to weep. 

“Let’s never open that dreadful canopy. We can stay here until dusk settles in the horizon.” 

“If only,” he groaned. “Maekar will most like throw a fit if we do not leave in time.” 

“He will drone on about your duty and how he does not wish to go, himself, won’t he?” Baelor smiled and nodded, stroking up and down her back, in comforting motions. 

“Duty,” Baelor scoffed. “A distant cousin of mine once said that she is dry as dust between the legs and her kisses leave one bleeding. I must say that I agree, ask my nose and those scars. War may be necessary, but it is not glory.” Jena looked at his body and saw the kisses duty had left him. She traced the light, white ones with the tips of her fingers and then she saw the larger one, on his hip. 

“The Blackfyre Rebellion,” he said quietly and Lady Dondarrion moved down to kiss it gently and then turned back to her husband, her face inches from his. 

“I thought I was going to lose you, Valarr was so young and you left me with Matarys, still in my womb.” Baelor kissed her softly and pulled her closer to him. 

“I would’ve forced the gods to send me back, would they have tried to lay claim to me.” 

“You looked so handsome in your armor, atop your destrier, every inch a king. I remember telling Valarr that it would be him someday, standing tall and strong, the very picture of chivalry. His little blue eyes grew so large as he looked at you and then he asked me ‘will that really be me, mama?”’ 

“What did you tell him?” Baelor asked her, toying with her loose hair. 

“I kissed the silver streak in his hair and promised him that it would.” 

“They are good, our boys. They inherited the best of their mother,” her prince mused and she shook her head, smiling. 

“They may have my eyes and hair but their nature is all courtesy of you, their strong, good and gentle father.” 

“You are kind to say so, My Lady.” Jena almost thought he was blushing. _We have been married for nigh upon 20 years and he is still so shy with me, on the occasion._

“Do you recall the first time you held Valarr?” she asked. “I was sweaty and exhausted, unfit to be seen by my husband, but you kissed me and told me how proud you were of me. Then I presented you with our son and he looked so small in your embrace, little more than a kitten.” 

“I do remember and you glowed with motherhood. You were so beautiful, holding our babe in your arms,” he breathed, running his fingers through her hair. “And Valarr… I cannot believe he is a man wedded now. It seems almost yesterday that he begged me to put him on my shoulders so he could see the world.” The look in Baelor’s eyes was reminiscent, almost sad, as if he wished to turn back time and return to those moments. 

“Then came our Matarys, sweet little Matarys.” “He barely ever fussed or cried.” A soft smile touched her lips. 

“He clung to your skirts for so long, your little shadow,” Baelor bit his lip to stifle a grin.

“Matarys is shy and gentle,” Jena retorted, looking into her husband’s eyes and stroking his cheek. 

“That will make the ladies love him all the more, i’d wager.”

“He may not be the Warrior, yet he is truly his father’s son. Chivalrous, kind and lovely. Any lady would be fortunate to have him, as I was lucky to have you.”

“Aren’t you brimming with love this morn?” Baelor asked with an easy grace, leaning forward to give his wife a peck on the nose. 

“You will be gone for long, I must needs give you my due now.” 

“You are doing a lovely job of it, wife,” he replied, fingers trailing down the jut of her hip, stroking her thigh so softly that it almost drove her mad. 

“It will be lonely without your presence. I never cared much for cold beds,” she said, biting her lip and nuzzling closer to him. 

“The memory of me can keep you warm,” he breathed, trailing his fingers higher up. 

“A lady must needs do, what she must,” Jena replied cryptically. 

“So does a prince,” he retorted. “And the thought of you in this lonely bed, thinking of me is very enticing, I must confess.” 

“So is the prospect of you in that chamber, sleeping atop a foreign bed, thinking of your sweet, wanton wife who can’t bear to be without you.” That made her husband laugh heartily, the corner of his eyes crinkling up in mirth. 

“I am sure you’ll think of something to keep you occupied,” he said, allowing his fingers to venture inside her, eliciting a surprised gasp. 

“The memories will keep us both warm, i’d wager,” Jena breathed teasingly, as she put her lips on his and felt him grow restless on her thigh. Softly, she removed his hand from her and earned a confused look, until she moved to straddle him and he smiled. 

“You like it best,” she said shyly, feeling a blush color her cheeks. 

“I do,” he agreed. “But so do you,” Baelor smirked and she nodded, rolling her hips and Baelor immediately leaned back down onto the pillows with a soft groan. 

“This is much better than Ashford,” he lazily said and she nodded.

“Isn’t it?” 

Suddenly a knock was heard at the door, Jena frowned. _For the gods’ sakes, not now._

“My Prince, your brother, Prince Maekar wishes for leave to enter,” a servant’s voice said and the Lady Jena did not know if the groan her husband exuded was of pleasure or distress. 

“This is really not a good time!” Baelor called in a strained voice, as Jena kept moving atop him. 

“It is past noon, as good a time as any,” Prince Maekar replied in a brusque voice. 

“I’ll be there soon,” Baelor almost yelled. 

“You’ll have to hurry, Jena,” Baelor whispered as his wife giggled but she obeyed and picked up her pace, trying to remain relatively quiet, but failing miserably. It almost made her feel half a girl, again. 

“Shh,” Baelor replied, trying to choke back a laugh. “We must needs be quiet.” Jena bit her lip and nodded, they both spent not long after, but they were barely allowed to bask in it, for Maekar knocked harshly again. 

The sun was blinding when she drew back the canopy and she winced at its harsh glare. 

“Here,” Baelor’s voice said behind her and he kissed her neck tenderly, before handing her a robe of black and red satin. 

“We must retain some semblance of modesty in front of my brother, do we not?” Baelor smiled as he quickly donned a tunic of white linen and black breeches, not bothering to lace the tunic, which displayed some of the dark marks peppered along his neck. 

After Jena tied her robe, Baelor opened the door and allowed Maekar entrance. 

“Took you long enough,” the youngest of the king’s sons grumbled, brushing past his brother to the tankard of wine that laid on the serving table. 

“I was busy,” Baelor replied evenly. His brother took one look at him and snorted. 

“I can only imagine.” Then he drank deeply from the goblet he had poured. 

“Lady Jena,” he allowed, glancing at her with one of his rare smiles. 

“Prince Maekar,” she replied happily. “You are leaving for Ashford later in the day, are you not?” The prince nodded.

 “In two hours, but it seems my brother was too busy lazing around to properly prepare for the journey.” 

“Do not blame Baelor, the fault lies with me… I held him up,” she smiled sweetly. “Womanly matters of the heart and such,” she continued and her good-brother rose an eyebrow as he looked at the both of them. 

“If you say so, My Lady.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Baelor bite back a smile. 

* * *

**II.**

 

It was the king who summoned Lady Jena Dondarrion to his solar, notifying her of the death of Prince Baelor Targaryen. 

“My King, My Queen,” Jena curtsied as she entered the solar. “To what do I owe this summon?” she asked softly. That was when she noticed how the king’s amethyst eyes were red and watery. A frown graced the lady’s face, and it only deepened when she saw that the queen had silent tears trickling down her face. 

“The Tourney of Ashford did not turn out well,” the king began, his voice thick with emotion. 

“The trouble started when my grandchildren, Daeron and Aegon disappeared on the way. When Maekar found them, Daeron said that a huge robber knight had made off with Aegon. This robber knight turned out to be a hedge-knight…” the king sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair. The Queen Mariah took over the telling of the tale. Even though Jena had not been asked to sit down, she pulled a chair out and did so, anyway. _They won’t have my head for it._

“Apparently there had been some trouble with Aerion, as well. He broke a puppet-girl’s finger for some mischief with a dragon in her play. He called it a veiled attack on house Targaryen. Aegon then supposedly ran to the hedge-knight, who was fond of this girl and told him that Aerion was hurting the her. In his rage, the knight attacked Aerion and was then accused with the kidnapping of Aegon. The boy says he lied in wish to be the young knight’s squire. Then, Aerion demanded a trial of the Seven.” The queen faltered in her tale, wiping a few stray tears away with her sleeve. _Did Aerion perish? Or Daeron perhaps?_

“And?” Jena asked meekly. 

“Baelor decided to fight for the hedge-knight, with Maekar joining his son’s side. They say that it was Maekar who dealt the fatal blow…” Queen Mariah broke out in a sob then. _The fatal blow to whom? To whom?_ Jena thought feverishly. Her heart began to race and her breathing grew shallow. 

“Baelor perished, Jena,” her good-father said with a wavering voice. 

Suddenly, there was not enough air in the room. 

“No,” she shook her head. “No… he said he was going to come home, he said he’d be back before I knew it.” Jena refused to believe it, not her strong husband who survived wars and rebellions. _He would not die in a tourney! He would not…_  Tears trickled down her cheek and Queen Mariah moved toward her good-daughter, embracing her firmly. 

“He promised me that he would come home,” she repeated with the voice of an innocent child. “He promised,” she said, breaking out in a sob, as the hole in her heart grew larger. 

“This is a terrible tragedy,” the woman agreed, hugging Jena tighter. The king looked as if in a daze. 

“Maekar?” Lady Dondarrion asked. “Maekar killed my husband?” Jena could scarcely breathe, her gown felt too constricting and it all felt like a bad dream, she wished it was. 

The king nodded, not able to speak the words. _No, no, no, no, no!_

“Why would he engage in this folly?” she asked, almost hysterical. “He was the heir to the throne, the Hand Of The King-- why would he sacrifice his life for a hedge-knight that he knew not?” she sobbed, clinging to her good-mother and feeling as if she had been torn open. Jena already knew the answer. _Chivalrous Baelor, honorable Baelor, dutiful Baelor._

“Because he believed in it.” The Queen Mariah’s voice was a mere whisper. “He had too big of a heart for his body.” 

A knife to the gut would have been a kinder fate than what was handed Lady Jena. She who had loved the man for more than half her life. _I’ve been with him longer than I was with my own family._

“I-I- I… we were going to celebrate his fortieth nameday, I told him that he was getting old and he laughed,” the words seemed to be spoken to herself, shrouded with grief and covered in misery. 

“I wish to see him, I need to… I need,” she sputtered, but did she truly? Baelor was a man filled with life, always in motion, warm to the touch with that gentle, wise look in his amber eyes. Could Jena stand to look upon her cold husband? A face that would no longer light up as it gazed at her. Lips that would never again touch hers or speak Valyrian poetry as they laid in bed at night, with their arms around each other. 

“They already gave him to the pyre, at Ashford,” the king replied, sadly. “Valarr set it ablaze.” _My son,_ she realised. _Our son had to witness this. He had to watch his father die._

“I can’t,” she cried, gently pushing the queen away from her. “I can’t be here,” she sobbed, not caring if she looked disheveled, or if her eyes were red from weeping. 

“By your leave,” she begged and the king nodded. 

“Do not suffer alone, Jena. We are here.” _Baelor isn’t._

On the way out, she wondered how on earth she would tell their sweet son, Matarys, that his father was never coming home again. 

* * *

**III.**

 

As soon as Valarr returned to King’s Landing, she summoned him to her chambers. 

Her son was rigid as he entered, the shine in his stormy eyes, dulled and matted. 

“My boy,” Jena hoarsely and opened her arms to embrace him. Prince Valarr closed the door to her chamber and looked at his mother. She was thin and looked almost gaunt. So brokenly beautiful, plagued by the anguish of tragedy.

The Lady Dondarrion barely ate anything at all, the mere smell of certain foods would make her retch and she was constantly fatigued. The King and Queen would look at her worriedly, when she did leave her chambers. Her sweet Matarys would visit her each day, sing songs to her and play with her hair. Even though he was hurting, himself. All she seemed to these days was to weep and wish for someone who would never again return to her. Someone who was so far gone that she wondered if he had even been. 

“Mother,” Valarr said so brokenly that it would tear at anyone’s soul. “Mother,” he repeated, more tearfully as he hurried into her arms and began to weep. 

“He’s not coming back,” her son sobbed and sounded as if he was but a boy of seven again. Soothingly, Jena ran her hand through her son’s hair of brown and silver and kissed the side of his head. 

“I know, my sweet baby, I know.” 

She had been angry at the beginning, cursing that hedge-knight for his foolish heroism, Daeron, Aerion and Aegon for their lies or truths, Maekar for killing his brother, and Baelor. _Baelor, my stupid, gallant fool of a husband. If he had sat back and not engaged, he would have been here._ That was not her honorable husband’s way, though, and she knew. It was a part of him that she had loved but now she resented it, for it brought upon his death. _A hedge-knight for a crown- prince is no fair bargain. He would have been the greatest king that the realm ever saw._

“It is not fair, mother,” Valarr said, clinging to her like he used to, when he was younger. 

“No it isn’t, my son,” she agreed, weeping alongside him. “It is not.” 

“He did not look like himself,” Valarr whispered. “He looked so small and pale and eerily peaceful. It haunts me at night.” That made her cry even harder. _What son wants to look upon their dead father and set fire to the corpse?_ Her brave Valarr had already lost, son upon son with Kiera. _He needn’t have witnessed this surplus of grief._

“He loved us, we must hold on to that,” she said, her voice breaking at the ends. 

“Why would the gods take him from us? He was young, nine-and-thirty and he would have been a greater king than even grandfather.” Valarr’s voice was the mere innocent one of a child as he posed the question. 

“It is not for us to question the will of the gods,” she let out but it sounded false. She cursed the Warrior, the Mother and the Father daily, for bestealing her, Valarr, Matarys and the realm of Prince Baelor.

“We must needs remain strong, my son. You are next in line to the iron throne and you will not fail your father. He believed in you and so do I. You will be a great king. As great as he would have been, do not doubt it.” Valarr pulled away and stared at her with his stormy eyes, the same as hers. 

“No one could ever replace him.” 

“No. Yet you are of him, my good and brave son. Your father is smiling down at you, I promise.”

Valarr hugged his mother tighter at that. 

* * *

**IIII.**

 

She had not known that she was with child, not until she woke up to a pool of blood between her thighs, with terrible cramps and a sense that something was not right. 

“It seems that you may have been three moons along, My Lady,” the maester said, apologetically. It had been so very long since her husband died. Yet it seemed almost yesterday that she was told the news. His face had somewhat blurred in her mind and it tore at her like nothing else. The one thing that remained as vivid as the sun, was those amber eyes, liquid and kind. Never to open again. Her Baelor was naught but ashes and dust, now. Buried beneath the earth and dirt, 

Tears pooled in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she remained quiet and allowed the maester to tend to her. The old man seemed unnerved by her silence and reaction, therefore he made attempts to at least keep some words in the air. 

“It seems that the symptoms of being with child, was clouded by your grief, My Lady. It is hard, when the wounds are so fresh.” _I killed my child,_ she thought sadly. Perhaps if she’d eaten more, if she had exercised and gotten fresh air, instead of closing herself up in her chambers... _then maybe it would have lived._ Maybe she would’ve had a last gift from Baelor, from beyond the grave. 

Valarr and Matarys visited her daily, until she recovered. The king visited once and the queen sat by her good-daughter’s side as often as her duties would allow it. 

“I killed my child, like Maekar killed Baelor,” Jena said once, her stormy eyes unfocused and bleary. 

“No you did not,” Queen Mariah said powerfully but Lady Jena shook her head, tears appearing.

“But I did.” “The gods seem to be nothing short of cruel these days.” 

If only Jena knew. 

If only she had known that those words would grow to be more horribly sincere than she could ever imagine. 

* * *

**V.**

 

Her Valarr perished first, a year after the dreadful ordeal with Baelor. Writhing, sweating and retching in his bed. He had been feverish during the early stages and delirious toward the end, yet the Great Spring Sickness moved swiftly and he was dead within three days. 

“You will live,” she promised her son who was writhing and moaning in his bed, his pale skin flushed, with a burning fever. She looked at her boy and saw the babe that she held in her arms, the son who’d looked no more than a tiny kitten in Prince Baelor’s large embrace. 

“Valarr,” Lady Kiera of Tyrosh sobbed. Kissing his hand, her black hair disheveled and her brown eyes, red and puffy. “Don’t leave me,” the young girl begged. He was all that Kiera had. _She is hardly a woman, it is cruel for her to experience this. She loves Valarr so much._

* * *

 

**VI.**

 

On the third day, the delirium set in. Valarr thought that Baelor was there and kept calling out to him. 

“Father i’m scared,” he pleaded. “Father help me, please, it hurts,” her son cried as both Lady Kiera and Lady Jena wept at his side. Matarys was not allowed to enter, the king had decreed that it was too dangerous for the young prince, lest he catch the illness himself. They had tried to restrict Kiera and Jena from being with Valarr, as well but Lady Jena had raged at them.

_“He is my son, I will not let him suffer all alone!”_

Until they were proven to show no sign of the sickness, neither she nor Kiera could visit Matarys either. 

* * *

**VII.**

 

Prince Valarr, the heir to the throne, died on the eve of the third day. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated as he lay shivering in his wife’s arms. The girl was trying to be strong for him but Jena saw the silent tears that trickled down her cheeks. 

“My beloved son,” Jena said as he turned his feverish eyes upon his mother. She moved to kiss his damp forehead. 

“I’m scared mother, I do not want to die, please,” he begged, tears leaking from his dazed stormy, eyes. The man had barely lived. 

“You won’t,” she promised, taking his hand in hers and kissing it. “You won’t.” 

“I love you,” he whispered several times. Neither Kiera nor Jena knew to whom he was speaking to. _Both,_ she wagered. 

Then he died. 

No words could do justice to the hysteria that took hold of Tyroshi Kiera, then. She wailed and begged and cried when his eyes would not open again. 

“No,” she pleaded with trembling lips. “Not you,” she wailed, rocking back and forward with Valarr’s limp body in her arms. 

The young woman kissed Valarr’s forehead and his cold, pale lips but it would not bring him back.

* * *

**VIII.**

 

Four days after Prince Valarr’s death, another prince caught the Great Spring Sickness. 

It was the sweet Matarys. Her second son. Her last son. 

Lady Jena had to be force-fed milk of the poppy, when the news were brought to her. So severe were her shaking and hysterical spells. _Not my Matarys,_ she pleaded time upon time. _Not the last thing I have left. Of me, of Valarr, of Baelor._

How cruel was the Mother, to do this to Jena? 

She insisted upon visiting her second son every day and the poor thing succumbed even faster than his older brother. Her sweet Matarys, the gentlest of all his cousins, with a good and chivalrous heart. What angel of death would take a boy that young? So full of promise and talent. 

 _He never hurt anybody,_ Jena thought. 

The gods never care about that, though. 

* * *

**VIIII.**

 

Matarys died in his mother’s arms, sobbing and whimpering. He was young and scared and above all; did not wish to die. 

The young are meant to live. Sweet Matarys, did not.

No matter how fierce her prayers, or how many times they changed his bedsheets. It did nothing for the princeling. 

“I love you, my sweet,” the Lady Jena sniffled as she kissed her sons damp hair, streaked with silver-gold. 

“Please mother, it hurts,” he cried with fear in his blue eyes. 

“I know, my son. You must remain strong, for me and the realm.” 

“Will I see Valarr and father soon?” he asked suddenly, bleary-eyed and sounding younger than his years. Jena let out a sob and held her son tighter. 

“One day, but not today. Gods please, not today,” she begged. 

“I’m sorry mother,” her sweet son said on the last day he lived. “I do not think I can fight any longer.” 

“Oh you must, my love, you must,” she pleaded, running her hands through his brittle hair and felt how the fever was cooking him from within. 

An eerie calm took over him, then. “I love you, mother,” he muttered before closing his stormy eyes. 

Sweet, Prince Matarys never opened them again. 

* * *

 

**X.**

 

Lady Jena Dondarrion died a week after her Matarys, mere days after her good-father, King Daeron perished of the same cursed disease. 

She was all alone when the stranger came for her. Barely anyone dared to visit her, except Lady Kiera and the Dowager Queen, once.

But Baelor and her sons were there, as well, toward the end. After the shaking, retching, shivering and weeping.. _All will be alright,_ she thought. 

“My love,” she called as soon as she saw Baelor in the shadowy corner of the room. He had his arms around Matarys and Valarr, who was of a height with his father. “My sons.” 

“We are here, Jena,” he said and looked as young as the day when he left for that cursed tourney. 

“You’re really here?” she cried, feverishly and he nodded, smiling. Those amber eyes were still the same; alluring and soft, gentle and kind. 

“You can let go now,” Valarr told her. 

“We’re here, mother. We came back for you,” Matarys added, softly.

That was the moment Lady Jena Dondarrion let go and was reunited with her family. 

She was as old as her husband had been when he died. 

In the end, death came as a sweet relief. 

It was a cold finger pressed upon her lips. 

A sweet embrace, in the form of a lost family.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PPS: I finished this in the middle of the night, without my glasses so lmao i'm sorry if there are any mistakes. I'll fix it for that one time in the future when I edit, hahah.

**Author's Note:**

> so that was the chapter! Please comment down below if you have any requests and your thoughts!


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